To Lemons, Add Light

Summary: Calliope Winter Winthrop is stuck and out of place in her own hometown, an up-and-coming New England hamlet. Family and money concerns frustrate her desire to move on in life, all the while avoiding a disturbing ex-boyfriend. Coming to terms that she won't travel or get out in the world any time soon, she enrolls in a Russian literature continuing education course, hoping for a little academia and ersatz travel. An unlikely suitor gives her that, and much more.

Novel-length (80,645words) May-December romance, yes, with love scenes, but not horribly explicit. Just tasteful, I hope you'll find : )

Another note to readers: When I started this story some years ago, and before the current conflict, I knew very little about Russia and it's history, culture and language. I have since read a number of books and blogs on those subjects, but that merely scratches the surface, and any thoughtful commentary or correction regarding all things Russian is greatly appreciated!

Many thanks to M., for great feedback during development!

Chapter 1

On the screen, handsome husband Paul Mallen eyed his wife sidelong. He slowly pulled out his 'missing' watch from her evening clutch...

"Oh, screw him!" I said, then bit my lip and slumped back in the cold metal chair. No one turned to look...

... while she sat dressed to the nines, trying to enjoy a rare night out. His accusing eye caught her attention and sent her into hysterics before a room full of patrons.

The students up front continued laughing and chatting while watching 1940's Gaslight, their heads bobbing back and forth like dark lollipops against the screen. They didn't seem to notice me, sitting alone in the last row and frequently glancing at the door. I found it hard to swallow the lump in my throat after my outburst and glared at the stupid, useless collegiate women, envying their youth and carefree attitudes. Well, Youth I didn't envy, but carefree, yes. My heart beat faster in that dark auditorium as I gripped the edge of the seat, then launched into yoga breathing--deep in through the nose and out through the mouth. I had to.

Why had I come to this movie, especially alone? Maybe it was a test. I hadn't seen my ex since I broke up with him two years ago and kept telling myself it was over. But if so, why did I keep telling myself that?

The credits rolled, lights came on, and the giggling students stood, checking phones and gathering hoodies. I bent over in my seat and pretended to tighten shoelaces, waiting for the others to filter out. I wanted them to leave without noticing this 26-year-old stowaway on the campus of a college she could never afford, although they couldn't know that.

At a distance, I followed them out the door. They peeled off and headed toward the dorms in the warm and sticky night, unusual for early June in Surrey, New Hampshire. I headed for the parking lot located across campus, looking side to side and occasionally over my shoulder. Nine pm wasn't all that late and street lamps lit the sidewalks well, but I stepped up my pace and when I reached my car, checked beneath and around it before the key, firm in my grip, glided into the lock. Somewhere, the tinkle of laughing girls receded, then disappeared behind the clunk of a heavy dormitory door. Silence. I slipped into the driver's seat, locked my door, and left.

***

A June bug flew into the screen door and bounced off. I grinned, sitting at the little kitchen table at the back of my apartment, enjoying fresh morning air, hot coffee, and my landlord's litany of colorful expressions; "Ah, fuck!" he cursed from the basement garage. "Sorry, Cal!" he yelled.

"No problem!" I yelled back.

"Shouldn't cuss when there's a lady's around, but I cracked my fuckin' knuckle!"

I snorted into my coffee. I couldn't even see Geroge from where I sat. He fixed his motorcycle from the basement garage located underneath his house on a hill. The newer side addition to the house served as an apartment. George, a chef by trade, was a big, scary-looking dude and the perfect landlord for me, for with him nearby, who would bother me?

He continued to tinker and curse during that Saturday morning, my favorite part of the week; no rushing, just relaxing, possibly helping with a press-check at work in the afternoon. My boss, Mr. Garabedian, always seemed reluctant to ask me to come in and help with big projects on weekends, but I always reassured him that it was fine; I lived nearby and it wouldn't interrupt anything. He shook his head when I said that, but it's true. I had nothing else to do. People looked at me funny when they found out I was single, but what of it? It was a beautiful day, anyway.

Turns out, the print shop needed me at three o'clock for the press check, basically to unlock the front door for the client and graphic designer and act as go-between for client and pressroom. At four, I left the shop after a smooth press check and picked up groceries before heading home. Goodwill sat at the end of the shopping plaza, and on a whim, I decided to check it out. Hey, what better thing to do on a Saturday afternoon? At least at Goodwill I could splurge; Michael Kors, and even Filene's, lay a thousand miles from my wallet. Since forever. Oh well, I preferred saving my money for travel over material goods, but despite that effort, the dollar/euro ratio wasn't promising, and I had bills to pay. And sometimes my parents' bills, too.

I parked in a spot in the back where I could see everyone and their cars coming and going before I got out. Not that Laslan would come here, God forbid, but still. I didn't want him to ruin my shopping adventure, even if by merely sighting him, crazy fuck. He'd humiliate me for going to Goodwill, but so what if people needed to shop there? Life is expensive and lucky breaks few.

The body odor of softened old clothes gushed past the battered glass door and into my face. I stopped in the aisle of womens' pants and skirts and looked around. Watching a handful of folks with their heads over gently-used shirts and jackets, I wondered how to get back into life, how to quit ducking into those places I knew he wouldn't go. All the places he seemed too proud to acknowledge.

Racks of knick-knacks and used books and picture frames lined the back of the store. I shrugged, why not? Maybe I'd find a few vintage classics or travel guides. Filmy vases and chipped decorative pots cluttered the shelves. An earthy pot piqued my interest as a good toad home for my mother's wild wildflower garden. Something rattled in the pot when I picked it up, and inside, a small, brightly painted doll rolled back and forth, her smile appearing and disappearing as she rolled. I put the pot down and picked up the doll, a cute little thing, the kind that opens to reveal another doll, and so on. I couldn't remember the name, except I knew it was something Russian. I opened the doll, revealing two more dolls. The last doll, the baby, was missing. Putting the doll back together, I admired the crisp detail of the mother's dark eyes and the apron adorned with pink and yellow blossoms. Cute, but I didn't need it. I replaced her among the knick-knacks and continued a fruitless journey until my stomach grumbled and I turned to leave.

Looking at the clouds out the window as I approached the exit, the word seemed to float down and into my head. Matryoshka. A Russian nesting doll. I turned around and bought her.

Rosy the Matryoshka, as I named her, found a home on the living room bookshelf among sketch pads and portfolios and a collection of vintage tour books for all sorts of countries since I dreamed of visiting any place. Others' dreams, too, I guess. The bindings of some in mint condition, I wondered if anyone ever read them. Seemed a shame to buy a book and not read it. What's the point? Maybe we hoped to magically infuse the book's knowledge through our fingertips simply by caressing the cover.

I heated a can of tomato soup for dinner, read Jane Eyre for a while, then surfed through vinyasa flows before bed. The beige carpet and walls of the silent living room helped me relax and get in the zone. Go through the flows, the thoughts. Sometimes I mourned the end of my workout as I lay in dead man's pose, the way it took me out of myself, but before I fell asleep on the floor, I peeled up, checked the locks, then plowed under the sheets of the twin bed by nine o'clock on a Saturday night.

Chapter 2

Sunday morning. I stared at the ceiling before rolling out of bed and taking a shower. The bathroom was located at the end of the long, narrow kitchen, complete with stackable washer and dryer. A lot of stuff to stuff in a small space meant for one. George's mother had the addition built when his father passed, then moved in. That way, mother and son had privacy yet remained close. When she passed, George rented the place to pay property taxes on the home otherwise paid off by George's father. Smart. I wished my family had their act together, but no; we had a forever mortgage on a worn-out cape.

Towel drying my hair, I wandered to the back door and gazed out the window. Mist shrouded the old crab apple tree by the sandy curve in George's back yard. He had once muttered about cutting down the tree, but I pointed out its wellspring of life; insects in the apples, yellow jackets eating the insects, woodpeckers nesting in the tree. I swayed George towards live and let live, and he conceded. One point for Callie. I had no other power to save the ugly trees I loved except with strokes of my ink pen, before the ax wielded the last stroke.

My ink pen portfolio, populated with drawings of dead and dying trees and fantastical animals, rarely saw the light of day. Growing up, kids made fun of my strange worlds on paper; even my own father rebuked me, 'Calliope, why don't ya draw a vase of flowers or sumthin' like that?' Dad wasn't big on imagination, just dinner, and Sunday dinner at my parents' always went something like this:

Jordan comes in late.

"Jordie, you're late."

"Call me Jordan, not Jordie."

"Everybody calls you Jordie."

"Well, you guys ain't everybody."

This Sunday, Bad Boy Jordie corralled Mom's attention and she overcooked the chicken, then Mom and Dad argued over a crock pot lid, Dad rolling his eyes while Mom moved the lid from one cabinet to another. They constantly bickered, yet one never seemed to act as if smarter than the other. My ex, Laslan, was always right about everything, or so he made me think. And I'd fallen for it. My stomach clenched just thinking about him, so I kept busy, kept moving, grabbing knives and forks and setting the table.

Between dinner and dessert, I withdrew to my old attic bedroom for blouses to take back with me. Jordan's room was across the hall, his door shut as always. Mom always thought I should stay home, too, as a single woman; 'Too bad it didn't work out with you and that nice boy. You would have had beautiful children.' Mom always said that, sending a shudder across my shoulders. If only she understood, but she never would. Good-looking = good person in her eyes. I'd thought so at first, and hung a lot of hopes on him.

I rooted in my cramped closet for the dated solid-colored blouses that dressed up easy with a cheap scarf. Shoving aside a rack of trousers, I saw my cardboard box of childhood favorites on the floor in the corner. I pushed aside dusty boots and shoes and dragged out the box, then sat on my heels a moment, contemplating whether to open it.

I huffed, then pulled open the flaps slowly so the lint and dust slid down the sides of the box and didn't pop into the air. Ah, the first items: a pair of stuffed blue birdies from toddler days, then the sherbert orange-colored shorts that I wore every day the summer I was six, my happiest summer. That Fall, I dissolved into the public schools, where every creep and bully, male and female, protected by a cloistered New England town, took turns taking potshots at me and my funny family. Don't let Surrey's quaintness fool you.

I continued exploring the box, perusing high school reports and art awards from middle school, then came upon my favorite childhood book, The Dead Tree, a gift from my grandfather.

I leafed through The Dead Tree, reliving the story of life supported by the decaying trunk and limbs. Crooked trunks and branches had a singular beauty that I attempted to capture in my drawings, rendered in pencil, then lovingly overlaid with fluid ink strokes during hours in which nothing else existed.

I set the book aside with the blouses, repacked the box, and wrestled it back into the closet. With my book and blouses, I tiptoed around my bed and unlatched the old panelled wooden door to leave. A shiver ran down my spine. I used to love my room.

As I passed through the living room, Jordan looked at me from beneath his longish black hair, "Peek in my room, Callie?"

"No, why would I?" I sneered.

"Looking for a life, maybe?" He flopped back onto the creaky brown sofa and flung an arm over his leather jacket.

"Well, I'm not gonna find one there. Neither are you. And at least I don't still live at home, jackass."

Jordan laughed. Pure asshole, but at least he took a ribbing as good as he gave it. With a snarl, I sat on his feet, "Move, moron." Jordan withdrew his feet, then threatened to kick me. I held up a fist, then asked, "So, how's the grease shop?"

"Tire Barn, turd. Fucked up. The new guy got fired, so my douchebag boss hired another douchebag, ya know, like one of those friggin' dolls you open up and there's another one just like the first one..."

"Matyroshka."

"Yeah, right, so they're all the freakin' same. Douchebag outta pay me double and let me run the place," Jordan's feet rested against my thigh. I cocked my ear to the kitchen. Mom hassled Dad about dessert spoons, then I said, "Okay, but if you're manager, when will you have time to ply your trade, or do your customers come to you?"

"Whadda' you care?"

"Why bother selling?" I asked. "Weed's legal, no?"

"Yeah, dispensary weed is, but it's tracked and taxed and right now you gotta have a med card. Some people don't want to get into all that."

"Huh, true." See, sometimes Jordan and I saw eye-to-eye, but I still wondered what he did with all his money. He'd never tell me. Auto mechanic, weed dealer, lived at home and fixed his own car. I knew he helped out Mom and Dad with bills and groceries, but still.

"All right, kids, dessert's ready!" Mom's falsetto rang from the kitchen.

"Ew, that's too bad," Jordan snickered.

"Jordan, shut your mouth," Dad hollered. And so on. Mom pulled her threadbare red-checkered apron over her head and Dad helped her hang it on the hook in the kitchen. Yes, my mother actually wears an apron when she cooks, and if you had ever seen Jordan with his greaser looks sitting at our wobbly tin-top table, you'd swear it was 1955.

Jordan giggled again and pushed his stinky feet into my legs. "Get off me fucker," I cried, swatting his legs.

"Callie, language," Dad yelled. Again.

"Sorry." Oh well, I knew Mom didn't hear me cuss, because if she did, she'd deny that I used such language. I took my seat and sat before a chocolate pudding with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, served in Gam's sundae glasses. Gam, my toddler nickname for our maternal grandmother, still stuck after all these years. She lived in an assisted living home not far from us, and I thought about Gam as I turned the glass, watching the light play on the facets.

Jordan sat also, then muttered, "Mm, crap in a cup."

I frowned at him, then said, "Thank you for dinner, Mom."

She pursed her lips, then shook her head, "Someday you'll have someone to cook for."

I shoved my spoon in and out of the pudding, watching the waxy sprinkles fall on the tablecloth, "Right. So, uh, talked to Gam lately?" I looked at Mom, then at Dad, who scowled. I pursued no further, but Mom replied, "She's fine." She then snapped her napkin and spread it on her lap. She did not look at me.

After we ate, Dad and Jordan cleared the table and Mom packed me leftovers, including leathery lasagna from mid-week. "Give me an extra pudding," I requested. Mom's face looked hard, but she obliged. I thanked her with a kiss on the cheek, gathered my food and pocketbook, and bid Dad good night. Jordan got the finger as he flopped onto the couch again and turned on the TV, "See ya, Callous."

"Yeah. Quiet night, Jord?" I asked while passing through the door.

"Yeah, you know all about them, don't you? At least...," He stopped.

"At least what?"

"Nuthin. Go chill," Jordan replied.

"Yep. See you next Sunday."

My old silver Honda glittered in the rays of the late afternoon sun. I looked up and down the street before getting in, but why bother? Even though I'd moved on the sly after dumping Laslan, got a new old car, and changed my phone number, he obviously knew where my parents lived. If he wanted to stalk me, how would I know, and what could I do? And really, why would he bother, since he seemed to consider me as below him in the end.

But then, a cat plays with its prey.

The warm evening breeze teased a long strand of my dark hair out the window, playing with it like a streamer. I smirked. Sometimes the non-human world touched you and played with the innocence of a child, as if you belonged with the inanimate and infinite, and were not an organism of restricted function and borrowed time. Borrowed time. That's why wasting nearly three years with Laslan hurt, thinking that maybe we'd make a life together. I took a deep, stuttering breath. I had a right to be happy, at least some of the time, no matter what anyone did to me. My biggest challenge was convincing myself of that. And how to get there.

Happy I didn't quite feel when I unlocked the back door of my apartment. Originally, George wanted me to park in front of the house since he tooled around in the backyard often. Really, I think he didn't want me to see him when he kicked back on his deck and smoked a little weed, but who can't smell that stuff from a mile away? Besides, I didn't care. I lied and told him I worried about someone hitting my car and preferred to park in the back. Truth is, I didn't want my car in plain sight, and George wanted an older, quiet, no-nonsense female for the apartment, so he acquiesced. No students, and that's why, two years ago, he had advertised mid-semester, long after the university students had secured places to live.

"Peace and quiet, that's what I want from ma' tenant. My mother lived here before she passed and I don't want no fancy-pants rich kids pukin' on her carpet or turning the place into a brothel." With a booming laugh, he had added, "Well, maybe a brothel would be okay." I liked George; intimidating if you were a dick and sweet if you weren't. One of his hands alone could crush Laslan's face, but I put that out of my mind. Be careful what you wish for.

Anyway, another weekend come and gone. I let go of memories through a flow of yoga, slipped into my old yellow pjs, and brushed my teeth. The woman looking at me in the mirror looked older, her eyes deeper, darker.

Chapter 3

Monday. The print shop hummed as I walked into work at noon, my turn to take over the office from Mrs. Garabedian. She covered mornings and filled me in on developments; which projects hit snags, which customers had billing questions, who needed proofs or revisions. My shift ended at eight pm, along with Javin, one of the afternoon/evening pressmen and my closest confidant at work. He often walked me to my car at night, if he wasn't still running a press, even though we parked in a gated back lot. Still.

After catching up with Mrs. Garabedian, I put my dinner in the refrigerator. Javin strolled into the break room with a coffee mug in his hand and smiled, "Hey, sunshine! How was your weekend?"

"Oh, you know, quiet. Dinner at Mom's again on Sunday."

"Mm hm." He leaned against the counter, watching me make a fresh pot of coffee.

"Okay, Javin, quiet's not your style. What's up?"

"Callie, why aren't you married yet?"

I laughed, "Because you already are."

Javin chuckled, but I was serious. He was one of the nicest guys I knew, with a wife sweet as pie and two cute little boys. I would never hurt his wife, yet always felt a twinge of jealousy. At least with Javin I had an example of a good man besides Mr. Garabedian, and in a lopsided way, my dad. I just hoped that Javin wasn't the last of the younger ones. Then again, maybe I needed to broaden my horizon.

"Ah well, nice compliment to start a Monday. Catch ya later, Cal."

"Yep."

I wiped and tidied the counter. Some people dreaded Mondays. I didn't. Work was my safe environment with people who appreciated my work, a mix of paperwork, customer service, tying up loose ends and quashing fires. Everyone conducted themselves in a professional manner, with the exception of Joey-somebody, a hired/mired/fired pressman who lasted all of five months. He hit on me all the time, and it turned out that he was married. Pressmen don't wear rings, so I didn't know. I don't think he knew either. I couldn't stand him anyway, always blaming everyone else for anything that went wrong. Sounded all too familiar.

I poured a black coffee and went to my desk, sifting through the mail and accounts receivable when my cell phone rang.

"Hi Mom, what's up?"

"Callie, have you seen my car keys?"

"No, Mom, how would I have seen your car keys? Ask Dad when he gets home." Her car keys hid in Dad's tool box in his shop. We all knew that. A while ago, we agreed Mom shouldn't drive unless someone went with her, to keep her focused.

"All right," she sighed, "but he won't be home for a while. Good to have someone around to help you out, you know. I don't know why you insist on living on your own."

"It's not the Fifties, Mom. Listen, gotta go, love you." Hang up. Stale topic.

I pushed back my chair and looked towards the window, the blinds vigilant against the heat and brilliance of the western sun, giving way to darkness by shift's end. Eventually seven-thirty rolled around, and Javin leaned in the doorway, "Press all washed up. Holler when you're ready to go."

I paused typing and looked up, "Javin, you don't have to wait around for me if you don't want to tonight. Why don't you go home early and see those sweet boys before they go to bed. Don't you want to tickle 'em for me?"

"Sure do, but Cherise doesn't put them to bed 'til nine, so I get some evening time with them. Besides, she and I have a system. Coming home early just knocks it out of whack," he smiled.

"Well, I do appreciate your help," I finished typing, then started neatening a pile of proofs for Tuesday.

"Callie, may I ask you a personal question?"

I paused and looked. He had his arms crossed and head tilted. I said, "You can ask."

"How come you don't have somebody? Really? Weren't you hooked up with some dude when you started working here?"

A few papers knocked askew. My fingers clumsily arranged them. "Didn't work out. That's all. Then I just needed time alone."

"People might think you're snotty."

I laughed, "Let them. It isn't that."

"Something happen?" he asked.

I looked at him briefly, brows raised.

"Oh, okay, sorry," Javin waved his hands. "I won't pry. Holler when you're ready."

"It's okay. Give me ten and let me grab my pocketbook."

I sat in the cool, quiet office, the window dark. I shut down the computer, wiped my eyes with a tissue, and left.

***

The scent of cut grass rolled through my open car window. In the dark, I hoped no one noticed me, but in a silver car, duh. Common color, but still light and noticeable. When I switched cars two years ago, this Honda was the best deal I could afford on short notice, and didn't seem like a lemon. There was nothing wrong with my last car except that Laslan knew the car. I was aware that it's easier to track people down anymore, but still I hoped that changing cars, moving farther away, and getting a new phone number would lose Laslan for a while. I prayed no one else would ever get roped in by his good looks and perfumed lines, but then, if he didn't find a new victim, he might get bored and come back for me. I shuddered. Had I put up with him longer than anyone else?

I never told Mom my worries because she thought Laslan was the bee's knees. I remember a few days after we broke up, and despite what happened, he had the gall to send a bouquet of yellow roses and a cheap note. I ripped up the flowers and the note and deep-sixed them in the compost pile before anyone saw them. Not that Dad would have cared, and Jordan would have laughed. He never liked Laslan, and I might have clued into that if I wasn't always dissing Jordan to defend Laslan. 'Stupid is as stupid does.' Now I understood.

I chipped the horn as a warning and eased the car around the sandy driveway to my parking spot by the apple tree. George's truck was gone and likely he wouldn't be home until late. As usual, I looked around before leaving my car, pepper spray in hand. I knew sometimes the stuff wasn't effective, but it was better than nothing. The light over the back door cast a yellow triangle like a glowing pediment, and there wasn't anywhere to hide. Shrubbery grew around the front doors and side windows, but Geroge kept them pretty trim. I didn't want to ask him to cut them back any more and make him suspicious. Besides, I loved nature and the evergreens weren't hurting anyone.

Unlocking the door, I slipped inside, then locked it immediately and flicked on the kitchen light. Apartment cool, still, beige, and empty. Just empty. I hung my pocketbook on the kitchen chair, one of a pair at the small table. After rinsing out my lunch, well, dinner container, I moved to the living room, turned on the lamp by the couch, and undid my pants. Morphing into easy pose, breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth, I closed my eyes until the brain chatter ebbed away.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. My gaze landed on the matryoshka.

Chapter 4

August. I talked a few times on the phone with my best friend from high school, Mitzi, a feat considering she now lived in Montana after eloping with a real live cowboy. No joke! And now, just several years later, she juggled two young children and a baby, cats, dogs, and who knows, maybe sheep and cattle that drifted through her kitchen. I giggled thinking of crazy Mitzi and how her life went from zero to sixty overnight with no signs of slowing. And then I cried when we hung up. I missed her, but always heard fussing youngsters and whirring appliances in the background, and worse, the halting, pinched change in her voice when I said, 'No, I'm still not seeing anyone.' Mizti didn't like Laslan. He accused her of trying to come between him and me whenever she pointed out that he was turning sour. In the end, Mitzi won the battle. She and I remained close, but perhaps it was best that she had eloped and left before The Worst of Laslan had let loose.

But all water under the bridge. Let it go, or become a bitter old bitch like Gam.

On a mellow Sunday evening, I rocked in the rusty glider in Mom's wildflower garden, most of the backyard, really, with another old apple tree by the stone wall, reigning over grasses and clover and daisies and cosmos and vetch, all adorned with butterflies and bees to the very edge of the pockmarked cement patio. Mom could name every plant and their special properties, native or invasive, which she pulled up. If she wasn't sure whether a plant was invasive, she'd go on about it until I burst out, "Just look it up already!"

"I can't figure out any of that computer stuff, so just....," and her thought trailed off.

"Really, Mom, in this day and age? You shouldn't depend on Dad to do all that online stuff. You're not that old that you can't surf the net."

"Water's too cold for surfing. Anyway, have you seen my car keys?" And so these conversations went.

She really was stuck in some other era, but I suspected other things were wrong, too. Her disparities weren't bad enough yet to warrant medical attention, but how long should we wait? Mom and Dad couldn't afford much, and I didn't think Mom was old enough for Medicare. Dad's patchy employment didn't help. We watched Mom as best we could, corralled to home and garden. The neighbors complained about the messy yard, but let those Massholes build a fence and fuck off. Mom loved the place as-is. Dumpy Castle Winthrop still stood, for better or worse. It was all we had.

The patio door creaked, and by thinking about her, I conjured her. Mom appeared with two glasses of her favorite Country Time lemonade. I took a sip and grimaced, "Thanks, Mom, but this has way too much sugar. You shouldn't drink stuff like this."

"No, there's not much sugar in this," she waved her hand and sat in a weathered wicker chair. "So, any plans this fall?"

I shrugged, "Maybe some graphics courses. They're handy for work. Maybe I'll even get a degree some day."

"Graphics and work, work, work. Why don't you take a course at the university? You live close by and maybe you'd meet...,"

"Mom! All those guys on campus are at least five years younger than I, and I don't want to meet anyone there," I frowned at my lemonade.

"Well, maybe just meet some new people," she mumbled.

"Maybe." I drew designs on the sweat of the glass. Life never changed without new people, did it? Unfortunate.

Mom sipped her drink and cast her gaze over the garden. Honeybees sampled the purple clover while I hid behind my lemonade. I hated her suggestions. Why would I want to meet some college guy? Like any of them would want some local girl with no money, no education, and hated taking shots at the bar. Laslan liked shots, all right. Maybe that's why I never did.

However, a class on campus? Not a terrible idea. Not to meet guys, but because I'd never been a 'real' college student, so what the hell? It's just an idea.

***

During an early evening lull midweek, when most of the shop went home and ink inventory and proofing had yet to begin, I unwrapped my PB&J before the computer and surfed to the University of South Surrey's website. After a bunch of clicks, I found Adult Continuing Education. I never had any formal post-high school education, so what was I continuing? My cobbled education of community college courses, workshops, and related reading didn't feel like an education in my mind, but why not? Maybe memories of fellow high school seniors chattering about 'I'm going here...' and 'I'm going there...' made a self-styled education seem out. No one aspired to that. Shame. Self-styled was focused and affordable, but then, what did I know?

Scrolling through how to cook stuff, intros to maths, philosophies and a few other offerings, I stopped at Introduction to Russian Literature, taught by a visiting professor, actually from Russia. Pricey class, they all were, for me anyway, but something different. I'd always wanted to travel. Maybe the class could serve as a relatively cheap substitute, and didn't require a passport. Laslan always scoffed that I couldn't even afford a passport, and that was why he would never travel with me. 'I'm not paying your way, Calliope. Besides, Hampton Beach is good enough for you.' I think he was afraid to travel.

Well, fuck him. I tapped on the keyboard but not hard enough to press the keys, then I closed out the window and began my evening routine.

And my evening routine continued at home, with one exception; I downloaded the free Duolingo app before I started yoga, then stumbled through Russian Lesson 1 with its boxy letters. Interesting. Maybe I'd develop a taste for it.

I set the phone on the kitchen counter to charge, then took up my yoga position in the living room. I opened my eyes when my head and heart felt calm, ready for sun salutations. My eyes met those of the patient smiling matryoshka. She seemed expectant, but I said, "I'm not ready to start a conversation."

I ruminated over the literature course and grit my teeth; I know, not what yoga's about, but $$$ plus books. Was I nuts? ... breath... with grace and purpose ... breath... it's only money... right, plentiful as leaves on a tree. I exhaled... only money. Yes, from my travel savings account, but in light of inflation, world events, and Dad's erratic employment, I'd never travel anyway. Breath into plank... try the damn class. What's the worst that can happen?

Chapter 5

September/Russian Lit 101/Loneliness 301

No one in my family was familiar with campus. Not the University of South Surrey, not any campus. Mom always worked retail, usually department stores, until she got fired from job after job, chronically late or thinking she had days off that she didn't. Dad was a truck driver for a pretty long time, but quit to stay home, then filled his working life with construction, Wal-Mart, or hardware stores. And Jordan, the brightest of us all despite his attitude, took an auto shop in high school and spun it into a job even before graduating. If anyone should have been here, it should have been Jordan.

But it wasn't. It was me, and since I moved to Geroge's about two years ago, I partook of public events on campus, like movie nights, or browsed the library, or used the university woods for running. Anyhow, I'm not sure how public the events really were, but I went anyway, unnoticed, like a ghost.

And more than the movies or library, I loved the rolling forest that gently touched the campus behind the library. Year round, a soft bed of rusty pine needles cushioned the narrow trails from one pine-shrouded building to another until you entered the pure forest, foreboding yet enticing. Punctuated by granite boulders and criss-crossed with root-ridden paths favored by mountain bikers, the woods provided a soul-refreshing place to hike. I wandered there occasionally, listening to blue jays calling among the birches in summer or chickadees tittering in and out of the plentiful pitch pines during winter's chill. And the hidden gem--a dark lake, quiet and still, my happy place to sit and let life slip away for a while. Maybe one day I'd have the guts and the luck to share it with someone, but I wasn't holding my breath.

Or was I? Familiarity with the campus hadn't prepared me for actually participating on campus. I swallowed a lump in my throat, triple-checked the building number, then, pushing away the desire to skip the class and hide by the lake, pulled open the heavy door.

I must have looked like a deer in the headlights, an intruder, stepping through the plain off-white hallway. But no, I was not an intruder. I had registered and paid for this class like everyone else, and people of all ages went to college, right? Now see--that woman just crossing my path looks my age. She entered a room and plopped her bag and laptop on the lectern, then looked at me and smiled, briefly. Oh, she's a professor. Oh well.

I bent my head over the registration info on my phone, pressed forward, and found the room, a small lecture hall with those tiered seats, low at the front, high at the back, like bleachers. See? I didn't even know the proper name for the room, but I kept going, one foot in front of the other, telling myself to stop telling myself all that stuff I tell myself.

I climbed the stairs along the side and sat in the highest, farthest seat, from which to spy and survey. And avoid. I took out my notebook and pen, whose tap on the desk echoed. I had left my laptop at home although I received the syllabus by email. As old as my laptop was, I still didn't dare carry it around and possibly drop it.

A skinny young man with greasy black hair wandered in and sat up front. Although he didn't seem to notice me, I pulled my blue cotton scarf up over my chin anyway, like some magic blind. Next, a gorgeous young woman with ginger curls and a voluminous purple skirt sailed in and greeted the skinny guy, "Privyet!", which I knew meant Hi in Russian (courtesy of Duolingo). They exchanged a few words beyond my scope, then giggled. Two more students, more privyets and giggles, and still no one seemed to notice me, and that was fine.

After another five minutes spent chewing my lip, a cloud of seven or eight students swirled through the door and with them, like a black walnut caught in an eddy, an older, shuffling, slightly hunched man dressed in a black suit and fedora, cane in one hand, briefcase in another, and wearing black gloves... black gloves? In this warm autumn weather? Oddball. I shushed the thought as I recalled grade school classmates calling me weirdo for my great moon-like eyes and gangly limbs. The crooked old man leaned his cane against the lectern, placed his briefcase on top, then removed his fedora and gloves.

More students hustled in, slipping laptops and water bottles from backpacks while the professor opened his briefcase and took out a dry erase marker. He shut the briefcase upright and it fell over with a slap on the lectern. He then rocked back and forth to the whiteboard without his cane. His shoulder seemed to prevent him from reaching any higher than midway on the board, on which he wrote Russ Lit 101 Prof Marchenkov.

He turned and lumbered back to the lectern. Staring at him, I suddenly snickered and yanked my scarf higher over my mouth; he resembled Greu, Nosferatu, and Quasimodo rolled into one. A mean image on my part, then he looked straight up at me. My heart thumped. Shit, can he read my mind?

He stared back at me a moment but dropped his pen cap. A nearby student popped out of his seat to pick it up and handed it to the professor, who cleared his throat, "Uh, thank you, yes. Dobro outro, everyone. I am Professor Sergei Andreyevich Marchenkov, Introduction to Russian literature." He didn't smile, except at the redhead, whom he greeted as Iris, and I wondered if Russians were otherwise allowed to smile. And did he chain smoke and drink lots of vodka? Own a fur cap? Oh, stereotypes, I know, but I really did wonder.

Roll call began, to attach names to new faces, I suppose, and I felt sweaty anticipating my turn. He called out names and students responded with 'zdiss' or 'here'. I watched each student nodding to the sharp-nosed professor until I heard, "Kahl-ee-O-peeyah. Kahl-ee-O-peeyah?"

"Oh, uh, Kal-I-O-pee," I gave a stiff wave. "Uh, here." Boy, why did my parents stick me with an odd name? 'Can-I-pee, Colostomy, Cal-la-la-la-lee-what?'. I'd heard it all during grade school.

The professor frowned, "Kahl-I-O-pee? Okay. Is Greek name, Kahl-ee-O-peeyah, but if you say so." He waved his hand dismissively as a few students snickered. "Last student, anyway. Okay, we start...,"

After the flush in my face abated and I quit clenching my jaw, I focused on the lecture for a few minutes, but paid more attention to how the grumpy professor lurched back and forth, barking names and places. He tossed a few Russian words among his familiar students, then rambled about Dostoyevsky and forgiveness, treating his hands with sanitizer from the briefcase and rubbing and wringing them. He must have lectured since forever, so he couldn't be nervous. Anyway, I dreaded the pricey mistake of a semester with this annoying man. The last time I stuck with something I didn't like, I got hurt. Was it too late for a refund?

***

Mom's birthday party at the end of September felt worse than I hoped. I'm not sure if she really remembered how old she was, or if Dad reminded her. And of course, Gam didn't want to join us. We didn't discuss that at the table, but waited for Dad's only cooking credential--angel food cake. Mom sobbed as we lit the candles and sang Happy Birthday, sounding like a funeral dirge. It hurt me to see Mom hurt, but why did she still fret over that mean-ass mother of hers?

Gam not being here made things sour, but her presence probably would have made it worse. Who knew what might come out of her mouth? Nonetheless, I still planned to visit Gam at the home on Saturday, dodging her barbs while hunting clues to Mom's behavior. My sweet grandpa died with Alzheimer's, but Mom's symptoms weren't wholly in sync with that disease. "Just a little wifty," Dad grumbled. Maybe. Dementias are a spectrum, every patient different. We'd have to wait.

Mom muttered and prayed, clasping and unclasping her hands until she looked to the ceiling, then blew out the candles, "Oh I should have wished faster. We could have used the candles next year, too!" I nearly rolled my eyes, but glanced at Jordan instead. He barely nodded, then sat still.

"Jordan, what's your problem?" Dad asked. "Got somewhere to go? It's your mutha's birthday."

"No, Dad, nope. Nowhere to go. Just celebrating Mom's special day," Jordan smirked.

For a burly, aloof kind of guy who let money run though his fingers like sand in a fist, Dad had eyes in the back of his head. That canniness isn't reserved for mothers, apparently, although my mother had no eyes to the logical world at all. No wonder Dad did, and I wondered how Jordan and I survived to adulthood. We must have had guardian angels. At least until I turned my back on my family and let the devil in, prying me from them. Even now, the memory of him sent me to a dark place during this happy family moment.

Mom picked the candles out. Dad helped, scolding her to pull the candles straight up and out, not sideways, scraping the icing. Who knew there was an art to picking candles out of a cake? Anyway, tired of the nitpicking, I piped up, "Well, Mom, you'll be happy to know that I started a Russian literature class at the university last week." Mom didn't seem to hear; too busy cleaning icing off the candle nubs.

Jordan laughed, though, "Don't grow a big head, Cal, with all that hoity-toity stuff. A fat head wouldn't suit you."

Shielding one hand with the other, so Dad couldn't see, I flashed Jordan a nice, fat finger. I decided to stick with the class. No one, not even Jordan or that curmudgeonly professor, would get the better of me this time.

Chapter 6

Saturday. Floral prints lined the beige hallways of the assisted living home. Dark spots bloomed on the beige wall-to-wall carpet. Like my apartment, everything beige, but accented with cheap art and stubborn stains. I even wondered why the floors here were carpeted. Luxury, I guess.

Gam's home the past few years with canes and walkers and pee, oh my! I pitied the folks abandoned here, four to a room and some still in night gowns at two pm. At least they all looked fed, including those slumped like wilted flowers in wheelchairs just outside their rooms, drooling or dozing. Assisted living? More like unassisted dying. Nonetheless, I smiled at everyone I passed, albeit stiffly. Residents stared, smiled, or scowled in return. I wondered, did I want to grow old? But then, was youth always that great?

Turning a corner, I took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching my hands until I reached room 104, Violet Langer and three others. I peeked; Gam Langer, dressed in white slacks and a black blouse, sat on her bed, staring out the window.

"Gam?"

She turned her head, "Ah, there you are." She watched me approach as I pointed to her pants. In her cracked voice, she said, "Yes, I know. I'll wear white if I want, as long as I'm not shitting myself yet. Now, Mrs. Hake over there," she grabbed my forearm and pulled me next to her on the bed's edge, "she leaks like the Titanic, and they don't change her damn diapers but three times a day."

I shook my head, "Gam, you don't belong here. It's like a prison."

She waved a crepey hand in the air, "Prison. Old age. What's the difference? Besides, never a dull moment 'round here. What would I do at home all day, or God forbid, at your mother's house? We can't afford the Ritz, so the Schitz it is, living in the ditches with the other castaways. Grandpa's dead, so there's no riding his ass anymore."

"Gam, he had Alzheimer's in the end. You remember that."

"I don't care. He was dumb as a stump with or without brain rot. Your mother's the same." She looked down at her lap and pulled at a loose thread. Eighty-nine and sharp as a tack. In your foot. Shame she didn't seem to do much with her life except shit-talk people, so far as I could tell.

"Grandpa was a sweet old man and I don't wanna hear you talk about him that way."

"Eh. Go soft on people, young lady, and they walk all over you."

I tipped my head and looked at the floor. "Yeah, I know, sometimes."

"Do you know? Don't roll your eyes at me." I hadn't. She continued, "If you'd a'listened to me, you wouldn't have wasted all your time with that Laslan character."

I set my jaw and stared at the wall before me. Really? Why did I come here?

Gam wasn't finished, "If he'd been serious about you, he'd have married you." Indeed. Halfway through our relationship, I had hinted at a future together. I thought it was the right direction, but he had laughed in my face. My eyes watched Gam picking the thread, when her head jerked up and she looked towards the windows again. Water shimmered on her lower eyelids and disappeared in a blink. The bitch returned, "Your mother taught you nothing you need to know."

My insides roiled, "Well then, dammit, why don't you teach me?"

She sighed, then murmured, "Oh, doesn't matter now. Just make sure you marry someone you love."

"Well, of course, but...," I let it be. Perhaps dear, sweet grandpa was someone else in her eyes. Wasn't anything anyone could do now. "All right, Gam. Let's see what they got for us in the dining room," I said softly.

She perked up, "Good idea. You bring me any leftovers from your mother's?"

"No."

"Good."

Gam and I commiserated over lukewarm tea and Lorna Doone shortbreads in the dining area, a large, plain room with plastic rubber trees guarding either side of the door. Residents gathered at other tables and chatted over board games. None of them waved to Gam, who gossiped at me while my gaze wandered.

An old man with cane thump-thumped into the dining room, his lips collapsed over his gums as he smiled and waved to the gray-haired ladies. They giggled and waved back. So much life, so many stories, I thought. I wondered if anyone ever recorded any of them.

The old man stuffed cookies in his pockets. "No, Mr. Evans, cookies stay in the dining room. You know that," an employee in the kitchen chastised. The cookie thief waved to the ladies again and thumped out, ignoring the employee.

Cane thumping, clock ticking. A god-awful lot of reading homework awaited me. Gam quit prattling and must have followed my eye as I watched the old man leave.

"Got a crush on him? Go for it. He's the randiest old fuck around here."

"Grandma!"

Gam frowned, "Calliope Winter, next time, find a man who's good to you, makes you happy. Doesn't matter where he's from or what he looks like." She lay a bird-like hand over mine, "You haven't smiled in years."

I leaned back, "I smile all the time."

She shook her head, "No, you don't."

She's right. Again. I love the old bitch. Sometimes.

That evening, bent over Eugene Onegin at my kitchen table, Gam's words disturbed my reading. Marry someone you love. Laslan never loved me, nor had any intention of marriage. Eugene doesn't return Tatyana's love. His cruel behavior ignites a terrifying dream in her mind of coming across a snow-bound cottage filled with drinking, carousing monsters, in the middle of which, a leering Eugene. I pictured Laslan there, and didn't really want to know how the story would end.

***

Class on Tuesday morning and I felt ready. I spent the weekend catching up on Onegin, despite the disturbing images, and started the paper due next Tuesday. I readied my notebook and pen as students drifted in, a different student sitting in the front left seat, I suppose a tacit volunteer to pick up the professor's pen, should he drop it. I dreaded the day that I had to play fetch, for how would I know it was my turn to perform the unofficial duty?

Professor Marchenkov thumped into the room, conversing with Iris, walking by his side, until she peeled off to her seat. He followed his routine of taking off his fedora and gloves, then removing a marker and sanitizer from the briefcase, closing the case upright, and letting it fall over with a slap. It hushed everyone, then class began.

Ten minutes into the lecture, I reverted to a high school tactic that helped me pay attention--doodling. In the margins of my notebook, at the tip of my pen, a lobster riding a spider came to life. If I watched Professor Marchenkov while he talked, I would quit listening, mesmerized by his unique, clunky movement that yet exuded a grace of its own, a masterpiece of crooked limbs and stature graceful through careful motions, bringing forth visions of the Lobster Quadrille from Alice in Wonderland. I looked up to watch him again, hypnotized by his calculated sway. Of course, I hadn't actually heard his question when he looked at me and asked, "Calliope, what do you think?" He tapped the lectern with his marker while he waited, "Are you with us?"

All eyes turned on me. I stuttered, "Uh, I...,"

"Mm. That is what I thought," he uttered in his sharp accent. He turned his stern face, then beamed at Iris, who poured out her two kopecks worth regarding the current discussion.

Heat crept up my neck, hidden by my scarf. Fuck! I could never pay attention at the right time in school, and still couldn't. Still Kooky Calliope, adrift in the margins of her notebook. My insides felt like they'd fall out when class ended. My notebook fought efforts to stuff it into my pocketbook, as if it sprouted legs that braced against the zipper. The snappy, seasoned students streamed out the door. Only the professor and I remained.

He packed his briefcase, shut it, then pulled on his gloves as I walked one careful step at a time toward the lectern. The man in black with the piercing blue eyes looked at me.

"Professor, I..."

"Class paid for. What you do with time here, up to you." He grabbed his briefcase and cane, then nodded, "Dobro dehn, young lady."

Right. Have a nice day, dick.

Chapter 7

Mid-October. Life went 'round and 'round as usual, taking us deep into the semester and teetering on the Seasons of Gratitude. Ugh. I couldn't take it anymore; I felt guilty for not seeming to pay attention in class and never having the guts to ask questions, although I had many. Tuesday class, one eye on the clock, I felt nauseous when Professor Marchenkov declared his dismissal trademark 'Eto vseu', That is all.

Slowly packing my notebook and pen and pretending to check my phone, I waited for everyone to leave. I slung my pocketbook over my shoulder, and gripping the strap as if holding a wild chicken by the neck, I approached the lectern.

"Professor," I cleared my throat, "um, can I invite you for a cup of coffee?" I waited a moment while he busied himself packing his briefcase without acknowledging my request.

"Um, Professor...,"

The briefcase shut with a smart snap and he glared at me, "You ask me out on date?"

"No! Uh, no, I'm asking if you'd like to get a coffee with me. Or tea. I don't imagine what we have matches Russia's, but, well, anyway?"

A hint of a grin played at the corners of his mouth as he donned his fedora and gloves, "Yes. Coffee is good. Let's go." He picked up his briefcase and cane and headed towards the door. I stood, mouth open. He accepted?

I shut my mouth and followed.

The heavy door pushed back at me as I held it open for Professor Marchenkov. Simple things must be a challenge for him, I realized, but as he lumbered by me without a thank you, I wondered what I'd gotten into. Rather than regret my invitation, I launched into light conversation, "Don't you love the fall, the changing leaves? I mean, some of them have passed now, but, oh well." I walked alongside the professor, who nodded and seemed to plant each footstep with purpose. I imagined his swollen knuckles in those gloves and trying to make nice, I asked, "Can I carry your briefcase for you?"

He paused, looked at me, then handed the briefcase so fast, I barely had time to grab it, the weight yanking on my fingers. My look lingered on his gloves a little too long. I swallowed, then said, "I don't mean to be rude, but what's up with your hands? I mean, the gloves, the sanitizer."

"Rheumatoid arthritis. I try not to get sick."

"Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes."

"Does coffee bother it?" I asked.

"It can."

"So...,"

"So, let's go for coffee," he confirmed, continuing his rocking gait.

"Okay. So, Professor, do you have lots of trees in Russia?" As soon as it came out, I slapped my forehead and giggled, "I mean, do they change color like they do here?"

He looked at me, then answered, "Yes and yes. We have trees in Russia, and they change color. Birch, linden, oak."

"Huh, and where did you learn English? You speak it well."

"You KGB? So many questions, poshmushka. I learn from school and work and travel."

"Well, you're not a man of many words for a literature professor, and I've barely ever left New Hampshire, and here's another question--what's poshmushka?"

"Inquisitive one."

"Shouldn't I be? I'm a student, right?" I inhaled the lingering moldy scent of autumn, sharpened by the touch of winter's cold. Then clipping my usual brisk pace to match his, I wondered if it was his condition that slowed him, or the leisurely pace of another culture. Americans seemed constantly late, under the impression that anyone cared whether they showed up or not.

Professor Marchenkov gazed at the swamp maples that wore lingering laces of deep red. Eventually, he spoke again, "You, older student for this country. You should know everything by now."

"I wish."

"Ah, wish wish wish," he thumped his cane in unison. "Now, what is your work, uh, what was your name? Out of the classroom, I forget."

"My name was, and still is, Calliope." I think he needed a knock upside the head with his briefcase.

He double-thumped his infernal cane, "Ah yes, Calliope. Beautiful name, means beautiful voice."

"Wanna hear me sing?"

"No." He paused, smoothing his sleeve, "No, for reading poetry, not singing. Anyway, maybe wishful thinking when your parents name you. I think they tell you what it means?"

"Yes, they...,"

"A child's name should have meaning," he interrupted.

"I agree, but...,"

"You don't say much in class for one with beautiful voice. So, you never tell me what you do, your work." He continued our stroll.

Now I stopped and stamped my foot, "Well, you never answer my questions, either. What kind of professor is that? Anyway, I work at a print shop, second shift at...,"

"Why Russian literature? Boring class to sleep through?" he smirked, although his eyes did not.

My neck felt flush and I blinked hard, blaming my tearing up on the cool breeze. I looked him in the eye nonetheless, "I signed up for your class so I could meet a rude professor who interrupts his students." I really wanted to drop his briefcase on his foot. "I guess that's all I deserve, huh?"

He watched me for a moment, then sighed, looking to the ground. "Briefcase, please." He held out his hand, and I slipped the handle from my hand to his. He looked at me, "Perhaps coffee another time, but truth, why did you sign up for this class?"

I rubbed my arms in response to a sudden shiver, "I always wanted to travel, but for a number of reasons, that may never happen. And I've always felt behind everyone else, in everything, and I'll never go to college, so I figured, just one course, to see what it's like, you know, just... just to get out in the world. A little." I had no idea whether he heard a single word, judging by his impassive face. I felt hot again and flustered, "Well, coffee shop's over there," I pointed across the street. "We didn't have far to go, but," I shrugged. Words failed. Time to shut up.

He stared at me another moment, then said brusquely, "See you next class." He turned and walked rather quickly away, down the same stretch of sidewalk I needed to get to the parking lot. Too embarrassed to walk in the same direction behind him, I crossed the street and ducked into the shop under the pretense of a purchase, then spied on him from the window.

Smaller as he walked deeper onto campus, he seemed to greet no one, nor anyone him, reminiscent of my own traverses across this land. Stoker's words regarding Dracula crept up on me; 'Stranger in a strange land, and to know not, means to care not for.'

Eventually, he disappeared between two great brick halls of academia. I inhaled the warm scent of coffee, missing the conversation we never had. And I realized that I did care, and that made me mad at him.

***

"Coffee, Cal?"

"Huh?" I raised my eyes from the computer screen to Javin, hanging by the doorframe. "Uh, no, he... I mean, yeah, coffee would be great."

He looked at me funny, gave the doorframe a pat, then disappeared. Two minutes later, he returned with two steaming mugs. "Got a minute?"

"For you, Javin? Sure, come on in." I pushed away from the screen that I had stared at for half of the afternoon, as if by telepathy I could type. Javin sat in the cracked vinyl seat, the only other chair in my office. Mr. Garabedian's office had the good stuff for clients. "Thanks for the coffee, J."

"No problem. So, got special plans for Thanksgiving?" Javin asked.

"No, just the usual. Me, Mom, Dad and Jerkbag."

"That it?"

"Yeah, I got an aunt in New Jersey we never see and we barely know our other relatives. We're like a mini-family."

Javin laughed, "Mini-family. No such thing. No matter how small, they'll take up all your time and all the room in your heart. Ain't a bad thing, though."

"Maybe not, but it makes sense. My dad's a money sieve and Mom's from another planet. Keeps me and Jordan busy anyway. So, how 'bout you?"

"Stayin' put this year. I got a lot of family in Philly, but the drive's too long for the boys just yet." Javin smiled, "Not young enough, not old enough, so we're having Friendsgiving this year with another family and some wandering souls, giving everyone a bite to eat."

"And giving them some dishes to wash?"

"You bet!" Javin nearly sipped his coffee, then stopped, "Say, don't you still have a grandmother nearby?"

Now, I laughed and made wide eyes, "Yeah, the infamous Gam. It's not quite a holiday with her, but a better one without. She and Mom have a difficult relationship, at best."

Javin took a long draught and smacked his lips, "I hear that. But see what I said? No matter the size of your family, they'll expand to take up your whole life."

"Or tyrannize it." I tapped my fingertip on my mug.

"Only if you let 'em," Javin nodded and looked at me. "Anyway, I got to start the Avochelli job." He stood and headed out.

"The new menus?" I called after him.

"Yep. See ya in a few, Cal."

"Yep, thanks again," I raised the mug to Javin, even though he wasn't there. I set the mug down with a clunk. Avochelli's. Cute Italian place with wooden benches and fake grapevines, like summer year 'round. Mom loved the place with its woodwork and garlic in the air. Several years ago, we took Mom to Avochelli's for her birthday. Gam and Laslan joined us and we actually enjoyed the evening. Until the next morning. Laslan called me, angry, claiming we ignored him all night. Funny, I thought the person of honor that evening was Mom.

I finished my coffee, then stared out the window since I couldn't get much work done between careless typos and numbers not sitting still. As the blue haze of early night crept over the sparse parking lot, I wondered how Professor Marchenkov rounded out his day. Did he have a cup of breakroom coffee with a fellow professor and have particular thoughts about it? My familiar pang of loneliness reverberated with the lonely vibe that I felt from him. But then, I once had a vibe that Laslan and I would get serious. Or was that vibe really the tremor of a soul living a lie and denying it? When did the basics of life get so complicated? I thought it was pretty much grow up, get a job, get married, raise kids, pass to the Great Beyond.

I seemed stuck in second gear. Third gear failed. Fourth gear? Not now.

Anyway, all and none of these things did I wish to think about, not at work, not anywhere. I felt sorely tempted to ask Javin if I could join him and Cherise for Thanksgiving, but I didn't want my odd request casting a shadow big as a turkey. Nope. I sighed and turned back to wake up the sleeping computer.

Huh. Friendsgiving.

Chapter 8

Tuesday morning lecture, last class before Thanksgiving break. A couple of students glanced at me in my perch until I realized the front seat remained empty. My turn to play Fetch for Professor. I'd rather he fell over fetching his own goddamn pen, but I played along, gathering my stuff and plunking it on the seat closest to the dreaded lectern.

"Calliope, nice of you to join us," Professor Marchenkov said, plunking down his briefcase to start his routine. I half-smiled, barely looking at him. Smart ass.

My scarf hid the smirk that turned to frown while the professor highlighted distinguishing Russian words original to Turgenev's Kasyan from the Beautiful Lands. Rhythmically reminding myself to unclench my jaws, I prayed he wouldn't drop his stupid marker. So far, so good--no Butterfingers today. My head hung as if I concentrated on his question, eagerly answered by Iris. Again. She rambled and all the while, Professor Marchenkov rhythmically tapped his marker on the lectern, like my grandparents' old clock ... tick... tick... tick... echoing in the empty hallway after Grandpa died. Biting my cheek to keep from bursting out, I cast the professor a dirty look.

He was watching me from the corner of his eye.

I jerked my head down and kept it down until his dimissive eto vseu. He wished everyone a pleasant holiday. I wanted to bolt.

No.

A horrible idea condensed in my head despite the rustle of packing backpacks and classroom chatter. I hated it, but it was the right thing to do.

My lowered eyes, falsely fixed on my phone, took note of the torsos leaving. The last student, one smart ass, chuckled and said "Au revoir". Professor Marchenkov grunted but did not pause the long, slow sweeps of his arm, erasing the tattered text on the whiteboard.

I cleared my throat and approached the lectern. With his back to me, still erasing, he said, "Yes, Calliope? What can I do for you?"

"Uh, professor, what are you doing for Thanksgiving? I mean, do you have anywhere to go?" I bit a nervous laugh in half, but made a fool of myself anyway. "My family's a little nuts, but I never got the chance to ask you all the questions I have." I shrugged, praying now that he'd never turn around. "It might be fun," my voice trailed off.

He did turn around, but did not look at me, "Yes, I have somewhere to go." He returned to the lectern. "Head of department invited me to his winter lodge in the mountains." The marker and eraser went into his briefcase. Snap.

"Oh, okay. Just thought I'd ask. Happy Thanksgiving." I figured he'd decline, like Gam, but my smugness only lasted a hot half-second and I felt like a deflating balloon. Who'd want to hang with my family, anyway? I hiked my pocketbook higher on my shoulder, my footsteps echoing in the empty room as I walked away from the second snap of his briefcase.

"Office hours," he called out. "This afternoon. Why don't you come? We have the conversation we missed from your coffee shop."

I turned. "Can't. I work every afternoon. Thanks, though," I lingered, then headed to the door again.

I heard a sigh, then he said, "Okay. Sabbotta."

I stopped and turned, "Sabbotta?"

"Saturday," he explained. "Twice I decline your offer, rude of me when you have been kind. Office hours do not work, so, if you are not busy Saturday, you come to my apartment at two o'clock. I make tea, show pictures, answer all your questions. I probably tell more than you want to know, but anyway. Normally I do not bring students to my home, but you have questions and other opportunities do not work."

My stomach flipped. This felt weird, but why not? Could he tie me up and chop me to pieces? Doubtful. Planting each footstep with care, I returned to the lectern, removed my dayrunner, and wrote his address as he recited. He watched me silently when I struggled to shove the dayrunner back in my pocketbook. Awkward moment, so I blurted, "Water and vodka are nearly the same word in Russian." Oh no, Duolingo, don't embarrass me!

He stared at me, and then... he smiled, then he laughed. Shaking his head, he said, "I had no idea. Perhaps you teach Russian. Stand here, lecture."

I must have blushed as I jammed my pen in after the dayrunner and murmured, "Right."

He still looked at me, "But first, you must pull your scarf down so students hear your beautiful voice." He picked up his briefcase and leaned towards me, "And see your beautiful face. Dobro dehn, young lady. Sabbotta." He raised his briefcase as he walked away.

"Sabbotta," I whispered, watching him thump out of the classroom.

***

Thanksgiving. My fingers thrummed my thigh while Mom fussed over Dad's turkey carving technique. His lips drew thin, so I asked, "Mom, the turkey's not gonna' be dry, is it?" Unoriginal, I know, but the question diverted her commentary from Dad's carving to Good Housekeeping's brining techniques, and when that loop went dry, ha ha, I mentioned sour cranberry sauce and let her worries loop there awhile.

Jordan, his hair parted and slicked, smirked at me. He wore a button down tucked into black trousers, turning out a respectable appearance for the holiday, probably buying a few more weeks at home rent-free. Then he seemed mesmerized by the sawing motion of the knife. Thanksgiving through New Year's earned him a lot of cash. I suspected he couldn't wait to hit the road and attend business.

Dad finished carving and Mom helped him load turkey onto a chipped, gold-rimmed serving platter. Dad said grace, we all said amen, and passing the food began.

"Who made the mashed potatoes? Mom or Cal? Or Dad?" Jordan snorted.

"I did."

"Oh." He pretended to toss the bowl out the window, smiled, then dumped a ploppy scoop onto his plate with a splat. He almost laughed, and so did I at the subtle potty humor. I peeked at Dad, knitting his brow. Uh oh.

"So, Dad?" I said.

"Hmph?"

"Planning a spring fishing trip?"

"Huh? Spring? This is New Hampshuh', we don't have spring," he replied.

True. We had Winter, Mud, Summer, and Fall. "Well, I dunno. Like trout fishing in Vermont. Fish don't care what season it is," I offered. Dad eyed me, stuffed a forkful of potato in his mouth and mumbled, "Doh' geh' schma'."

"Paul, don't talk with your mouth open," Mom admonished. I let the slip slide.

"Mm... mmm," Dad nodded, "Mar, passagavvypease." Mom daintily slid the gravy boat towards Dad.

The rest of dinner passed with only the sound of clicks and clacks of forks and knives tapping plates, thuds of glasses set down on the table, and occasional hmphs of people chowing down, their minds busy in their own thoughts. Perhaps Dad planned a fly fishing trip in the cold mountain streams after all. Perhaps Mom wished that Gam accepted our invitation, yet enjoyed the peace. Perhaps Jordan designed a place of his own with a two-car garage and a basement full of grow lights.

Me, I saw Mitzi chasing children around the table, laughing and declaring she'd never get a bite all day. The cheerful image gave way to Laslan one-upping his father in that cold, perfect house, sitting at that cold, perfect heavy oak dining table that looked like a sacrificial slab. And then, while demurely slicing the tip of my turkey, I imagined Professor Marchenkov sitting at some long table covered with an oxblood tablecloth and candles flickering and desperately erudite conversation crowding the airwaves. What wasn't clear in my picture was whether the Professor looked happy or not. Hoity-toity stuff, my brain whispered, and I smiled and mumbled, "Sabbotta."

"What was that, hon?" Mom asked.

"Oh, just I have... uh, it's a word I learned in Russian literature class."

"That's right." Mom looked to the ceiling, then at me. "So, how's that class going? Any nice young...,"

"It's okay." I headed this conversation off at the pass. "The professor's kind of a grumpy dick, though."

"Calliope, language," Dad spat, a chunk of pea flying from his lip and sticking to his water glass.

I noticed Jordan cringe, but he recouped his cool and put me in his sights, "So, Cal, what are you wasting your time on Russian lit for?"

"Well, I couldn't get my herb trade up and running, so I went in for some language and culture instead. Oh, the horror, you idiot."

"Herbs?" Mom asked.

"Fuck you, Cal," Jordan said.

Dad roared at both of us. The peace dissolved and I gave thanks that Thanksgiving came but once a year.

Chapter 9

Sabotta. Meeting Professor Marchenkov at his apartment at two. Solid gray sky threatened rain, but what of it? We'd be indoors. Stupid and nervous, I'd forgotten to exchange phone numbers with the professor, and so had he. Or perhaps he didn't want me to have his number, or it was a ploy to make the plan stick. All I needed was his address anyway, which I double-checked before I showered.

Warming the water while I slipped off my pajamas, I turned and looked in the mirror before my image disappeared in fog. I looked into my wide, dark eyes, "Calliope, why are you always nervous about this guy?" My eyes wouldn't tell me.

I dressed in jeans and a mauve-striped button down with tiny flowers. Feminine, but not flirty. Still struck me as odd inviting me to his apartment, but true, our schedules didn't sync. Slipping on my coat, I paused, then picked up my pocketbook from the kitchen chair and headed to the door. I paused again. I can't go empty-handed. Hmm, a book of stamps? No! A half-dead bouquet I bought for myself two weeks ago? A half-burned candle? Then I remembered a small, unopened jar of honey from the farmer's market. Perfect, yet I couldn't wait to hear what Professor M would say about it.

The jar of honey rattled in the cup holder as I accelerated through a green light. Should I have wrapped it, at least tied it with a ribbon? I didn't have any ribbon since the last layette that I sent to Mitzi. Pink. I bit my lip and reminded myself not to think about babies right now as the brake lights of the driver ahead seem to fly at me, and I slammed on my own brakes. Shit! The red car behind me honked, making my heart pound even more. Asshole. I unwound my scarf and threw it over the jar to keep it still. Just a little farther to drive. Don't fuck it up now.

The Grumpy Professor lived in a small brick apartment complex on the edge of campus. His numbered parking spot was empty, so I parked there, assuming he had no car, then wondered how he got groceries. I wished I could have asked him if he needed anything, but then, I didn't have his number. Honey would have to suffice.

Pines and birches flanked the apartments, softening the plain walls and severe angles, a look out of keeping in this land of cozy capes and stately federals. Oh well, people gotta live somewhere. I climbed the stairs towards 2B, one hand on the cold railing, the other patting the small bulge of the honey jar in my pocketbook. I took long, deep breaths until I reached the door. My knuckles hovered a moment, then I knocked.

Moments later, I heard shuffling on the other side of the door, then click-click. The door opened, and there was Professor M, wearing a burgundy sweater and a poker face, "Ah, I see you don't get scared and not come. I prepared anyway." With a sweep of the arm, he opened the door wide and bid me enter.

"Shoes at the door, please," he said. He wore slippers himself. I fumbled my sneakers off and arranged them neatly with my toes next to his black leather shoes.

A teapot whistled on the stove in the small kitchen, clean as a whistle itself. "Uh oh, too hot," he ambled to the stove and clicked off the burner. "We let water rest, let it cool. Otherwise, we burn our tea." He made a patting gesture towards the kettle, as if petting a dog.

He's teaching again, I thought, then smiled, "It's nice to see you in something other than black. You don't look like you're going to a funeral."

He looked at me askance.

"I'm sorry, I mean, your sweater. Oh, never mind. That was rude of me, especially in your own home."

"Yes, is okay. Clothes for work, clothes for home."

I almost chuckled, reminded of Mr. Rogers, but remembered my manners and the gift, "I meant to give you this." My face felt warm as I dug into my pocketbook, my shaky hand rummaging for the little jar. "Here, it's just for, it's just...,"

"Honey."

"Huh? Oh, yes, it's honey," I mumbled.

"I see, simply that and nothing more. Thank you." He set the jar on the counter with a click, then rested a hand on my arm, "Relax, I do not bite."

But if I dribbled honey over my tits, would you lick it? Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? Was it an erotic thought or derisive? I shook it off as he directed me to hang my coat and pocketbook by the shoes.

"So, Calliope, welcome. Please sit." He showed me to a small kitchen table with the sliding glass doors to a patio close behind. "I brew tea, then we visit Russia, on paper, anyway." He poured hot water in each of two teacups, fetched a small plate of slender lemon slices, then handed the honey to me, "Open, pashzowsta."

I gripped and twisted.

"Mee-yed," he said and nodded at the honey. "Mee-yed," I repeated and placed the honey on the table.

"I think you learn meeyed on Duolingo, no?"

"Not yet, but I learned chaiyah," I smiled, pointing at the steaming cups.

He chuckled, "Yes," then rested his hands on the counter. He took a deep breath, then looked at me, "Calliope, I was rude to you the other day. I just, well," he shook his head, "I hope you can accept my apologies."

Wow! All I could do was stare at him; no one ever apologized to me, except maybe Mom. I shook off my stupor and waved my hand, "No worries. Make up for it now."

"Da? Horoshow. Good." He finished brewing the tea and brought it and the lemon slices to the table, as well as spoons. I wanted to offer help, but he seemed to enjoy playing host. I contented myself watching how he moved.

Giving his counter a wipe with a linen cloth, his profile to me, he said, "Do you watch everyone as you watch me?"

"You're the professor at the front of the class. Everyone watches you." Damn, that flush crept up my neck, which I couldn't hide with my scarf because I left it in the car.

"No, no," he shook his head. "You are different. I feel your eyes on me, even when my back is turned." He stopped and looked at me with a crooked grin, "You cannot like what you see. Monster, perhaps? But perhaps that is what keeps you looking."

I looked him straight in the eyes, "You don't know what I see." No. I knew what a monster looked like--perfect smile, perfect body, perfect hair.

"No. I suppose I don't." He folded and placed the towel by the sink, "Ah, finally, ready. Pull your chair next to mine." I did so, then pulled the delicate porcelain teacup with the little yellow roses closer to me. "So, do you say anything in Russia before you drink your tea, like 'toast' or 'cheers'?" I asked, my fingertips glancing over the silky, hot curve of the cup.

"Yes, we say 'Drink your tea before it is cold.'" And indeed, he stirred a teaspoon of honey into the tea and topped it with a paper-thin slice of lemon. His bent, swollen fingers deftly held the cup to his lips, and he sipped, "Right now, good and hot."

I brought the tea to my nose; floral and leather, grassy and sweet, yet a hint of bitter lurking beneath.

"No honey?" he asked.

"No, not yet. I want to see how it tastes plain."

He watched my taste test, his eyelids low and a grin playing across his lips. He looked younger in the moment with a sparkle in those eyes set above high cheekbones, "Lipton."

"What? Oh, come on," I threw my hands up in faux-exasperation. "I expected something foreign and exotic after coming all the way over to your place."

He laughed, "Well, I travel thousands of kilometers and expect little, and that is what I get--Lipton." He took another sip. "But is okay. Make do. Americans, eh, always so much pie-in-the-sky," he waved to the Heavens. "Anyway, I get photographs." He left the table for the other room and returned with a small photo album and two books.

"As you see, I don't bring much, and may have to leave things behind when I leave."

"When is that?" I asked.

"June. Contract and visa expire."

"Oh. Well, don't worry, I expected little," I grinned, although something about his departure date made me a little gloomy. He looked at me through narrowed eyes, "You have a special mouth."

"And you remembered to use an article."

"Article?" he asked.

"A, an, the," I clarified.

"Ah yes, articles, waste of time," he brushed away the invisible pests and opened the photo album. "Come closer. I tell you already, I do not bite."

I pulled closer, "But maybe I do."

He looked at me, brow raised, "Really? Hmm." He chuckled and opened one of the books to a map of Russia and started talking.

His first few words went in one ear and out the other. I'd learned two rather shocking things about the Grumpy Professor so far; he could apologize, and almost flirt.

He pointed to St. Petersburg on the map, corresponding to a big, beautiful, perfect green and white palace, and as the photos progressed, the subjects grew smaller, more personal, and his animation grew, his speech switching more frequently to Russian which I didn't understand and didn't care. His infectious enthusiasm told me all I needed to know about the streets and scenes in the photos, eleven pm sunsets of June's white nights and graceful bridges. Then, he turned the page again. I leaned in for a closer look, even placing my fingertip on the corner to slow his pace. A middle aged woman with a wide smile and spiky blond hair held a wispy bouquet in a large yard, overgrown with grasses and wildflowers, flanked with wispy willows and emerald birches.

He paused, then explained, "Lenushka. Very special to me."

"Oh." My heart seemed to thud painfully, but what had I expected?

"She is my sister," he continued. "Her garden at dacha, you know, little house and garden in countryside. Common in Russia and other parts of Europe."

"Yes," I whispered. "It's beautiful." It looked like my mother's garden.

"My favorite place." He gazed at the photo for a moment, then shut the album. "Last photograph. I hope you remember everything. Quiz later," he looked at me earnestly.

"Yes, professor, everything!" I nodded, wide-eyed.

"Well, that is it." He neatened the books, working to make them sit flush one upon the other. I watched his hands, wondering how to bridge this awkward moment. Clearing my throat, I asked, "Um, your hands, may I touch them?"

He inhaled sharply, "My hands? Why?"

"I don't know," I murmured, "They just...," My fingertips sought his knuckles. He seemed to freeze, but did not say no. Brushing gently over his joints, I asked, "Do they hurt today?"

"Eh, doesn't matter," he replied, barely audible.

"How do you treat it?"

"Steroids, ibuprofen, eat carefully, try not to get sick," he said softly, watching my fingertips touch, explore. Apparently the clouds broke and a stream of sunlight lit our hands, warm and bright.

"The sun returns," he said, his hands withdrawing with a slight jerk. "Uh, let us sit outside."

I nodded, stood, and returned my chair to its place. Gazing out the patio window, I hoped that I hadn't made him uncomfortable. "Do you want help cleaning the table?" I turned my head to look at him.

He'd been looking at me when I turned suddenly, and he replied, "No, no, is good. Maybe you get two towels from my bathroom. Chairs outside are cold." The cups and saucers clattered in the sink.

Two towels hung in the small, immaculate bathroom, and I wondered if he always kept his apartment neat as a pin, or if he'd made a special effort. I doubted it was easy for him either way, and there were no indications of anyone else living here.

I brought the towels outside and draped one over each of the chairs. Indeed, the sun had rent a rift in the clouds and felt marvelous in the protected patio. I sat and closed my eyes.

Eventually, I heard the slide of the door, a shuffle, then slide. I opened my eyes, then looked down at the ashtray on the tiny table between us. "Do you smoke?" I remembered my ignorant question from the first class that I never asked.

"Cigarettes? No. Bad for this," he held up his hands. "But if you do, be my guest."

"No." I looked at the brownish dot in the ashtray, then turned my eyes to the treeline, "I don't smoke anything."

Another awkward moment, yet easier in the fresh air with a treetop view like a bird in a warm nest. Perhaps he enjoyed it, too. I smiled, "Professor...,"

"Sergei."

I looked at him for a moment, then said, "Sergei, have you ever played Truth or Dare?"

"Truth or Dare?" He emphasized the r's. "No, sounds like Stalinist Russia," he frowned.

"I never thought of it that way. Let's call it a cultural exchange, a silly American pastime."

He raised his brow again, but without the hint of a smile, "Okay, I try it."

"All right. I challenge you to either tell the truth about something, or dare to do something, depending on what you pick--truth or dare. Give it a whirl." I felt a girlish giddiness I hadn't felt in years, and he'd surprised me with his willingness to play.

He rested his head on the back of the chair, gripped the arms and watched me through narrowed eyes, "Give it a whirl. Hm, okay. I have nothing to hide, and daring is for fools, so, Truth."

I took a breath, "Do you really leave in June?"

He smiled, "Is that all? I must bore you." He tilted his head, "Yes, my visa and contract do expire in June. So, you, Dare."

"No, I choose Truth or Dare."

"No," he argued, "you take Dare."

This time I sank into my chair and squinted, bracing myself, "Okay, Prof..., I mean, Sergei. Dare."

"Drink glass of vodka with me," he tapped his fingers together.

"That's it?"

"Da, vodka, not voda, as you taught me." With a hmph, he pushed out of the chair, winking at me as he walked by, "Don't go anywhere. After drink or two, I get truth out of you."

My cheeks warmed. Blame it on the cool air or warm sun. "Better not be Smirnoff or I'll take a class from the French professor and see what he has to offer," I called after him as he passed through the patio door.

"Ha, the French know nothing," he called back, then said something in Russian.

He returned with two small glasses and a bottle, setting them on the table while I closed the patio door. I sat and looked at the bottle, the label mostly Russian and completely unfamiliar, thank God. Laslan used to coerce me into shots of Smirnoff, which I hated and dumped my shots in my water glass when he wasn't looking. Stupid waste of money, watching him turn into an angry drunk, then having to drive him home.

Sergei poured and handed me a glass, held between his thumb and middle finger, "Za nashee drogzhabee, to our friendship," then drank it neat. Then he looked at me and must have noticed the morose stare into which I'd lapsed. "Calliope?"

I snapped back to the present.

"Calliope, if you don't want to drink it, you don't have to," his clear blue eyes bore into mine.

I picked up the cool glass, "No, that's fine. One shot won't harm anything. Cheers." I took a sip, the thick, flavorless liquid tingling my throat with velvety warmth. I took another sip, "Mm, it's actually good."

"Yes, I ship it from Russia. Too much trouble to bring in my luggage. Expensive, but a treat. Reminder of home, and something to share."

I looked at the three-quarters full bottle, "Did you ship it when you first got here?"

"Yes."

"And when was that?" I asked.

"Year and a half ago."

He'll have spent two years away from home. Felt a little long to me.

He leaned towards the table and poured another shot, which he did not drink, but held between his hands. "My turn again. This time, Truth."

I caught my breath, rolling and warming the glass between my palms, "Okay. Shoot."

"Why are you alone?"

A wheeze escaped my nose. Embarrassing. "You mean, what's wrong with me? A young woman, presumably still single?"

"Yes."

I paused, watching the light play on the surface of my remaining vodka, "What makes you think I'm alone?"

"You accepted my invitation. I think, if you have someone, you say no."

Astute observation, I thought, sneaking a glance at the nearly-full bottle. My fingers gripping the glass, I looked at him and said, "I hate that question, but here's the answer--I made a mistake years ago and put up with a shithead way longer than I should have. After him, I just took a few years off, you know? Had to clear my head."

"A shithead?"

"Mean, manipulative, paranoid maybe. I wish I'd seen it sooner, but oh well," my voice tapered off. I resumed staring at my glass.

I heard him inhale, then, "Yes, mean and manipulative." He emitted a brief, melancholy chuckle, "I am sorry to hear that."

I finished my vodka and set the glass on the table harder than I meant. "S'okay. All water under the bridge." I looked at him. He looked at me, brow raised, "Really?"

I wrapped my arms around myself and shrugged.

"We don't have to discuss if it makes you uncomfortable," he shifted in his seat. "Just curious why a nice young woman alone. Or, I assume alone. Please accept my apology if I am mistaken," he clasped his hands.

"It's all right. No. No one. At the moment. What about you?"

He drew his head back like a turtle into its shell. It seemed a veil fell over his eyes, "No, no one at home."

"Mm hm." I turned to look at the trees again. After a moment, he sighed, but as if he didn't want me to hear it. He murmured, "I wonder what lies in that forest." His low voice streamed along the table, up my chair, up my arm, into my ears. A shiver ran down my spine. A cloud passed before the sun and I spoke, "Trails, trees, a lake. The water treatment plant."

"Water treatment?"

"Yep, George, my landlord, he told me about it. He pretty much grew up around here because his dad was a math professor. That lake provides the water for campus."

"Voda, not vodka, I hope," Sergei grinned.

"No, but I'm sure there's plenty of vodka in the dorms."

The half hour of sunshine aroused the scent of sweet pine and decaying leaves. I decided to roll the dice, "Hey, it's not too late yet. Let's take a walk in those woods and I'll show you the lake. It's probably one of the few warmer days left this year."

"Every day here is warm," Sergei said, slowly rising. "Yes, walk is good for me, before I seize like Tin Man."

I wanted to chuckle, but then, part of what he said wasn't funny. I took the glasses into the kitchen while Sergei took the bottle and locked the patio door behind him. He followed me to the coat rack, held my coat while I slipped it on, then I helped him into his black overcoat. He grabbed his fedora, cane and keys, then unlocked the door and opened it for me. I took a quick look back at the warm, cozy apartment before stepping out.

There's no place like home.

Chapter 10

The professor and I strolled down the sidewalk by his apartment, then crossed the road to the head of a trail. I offered him my arm, which he took, as we traversed a sandy slope into the pines.

"Lions and tigers and bears!"

"Oh my!" he chimed in, not missing a beat. "But no worries, if I don't scare them away, then I beat them with my cane," he lifted the black wood weapon high in the air and waggled it.

I watched as he planted the end of the cane firmly on the earth before the next step. "Aw, don't be so hard on yourself. Nobody's perfect, and besides, this is the first time in a long time I spent all Saturday afternoon with a friend."

"Really?" he asked, looking at me. I was struck by how handsome he actually looked in the fedora, as he continued, "You have no friends?"

"I have friends." I averted my eyes to the tree branches, "I mean, acquaintances, really. We go out once in a blue moon for drinks, but it's not my scene. Then there's my buddy Javin at work. He's a great guy, but he's got a wife and kids and a life. And then there's my best friend Mitzie, but she moved to Montana awhile back, so...," I kicked a pine cone, "anyway, let's find that lake. If the monster from the Blue Lagoon shows up, I'll scare him off with stories of my love life."

Sergei's laugh burst out and rang through the forest, and he gently squeezed my arm, "Now, you give yourself some break."

The path narrowed through a split boulder. I preceded him through the bottleneck, then waited while he picked his way through. "The paths get rougher from here," I said, offering my arm, which again, he accepted. As I led Sergei farther from the road and deeper into the path-laced woods, abandoned over the holiday, he asked, "So, really, you seem to live isolated life for one so young. Why is that?" Gnarled roots erupted from the russet bed of dead pine needles. I stopped to watch sweet little black-capped chickadees flitting among the branches, calling each other with their namesake chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Then, I started, "I don't know. After I broke up with Laslan, that's the ex, I just laid low for a while."

"Or hiding?"

I snapped my head to look at him, "No!" But I felt that I didn't have to lie to Sergei. His eyes met mine, unwavering, and I realized that I couldn't lie to him. "Okay, yes. Hiding. I was terrified of him, the way he handled things." I turned to look over my shoulder. "Let's not talk about him right now. Not today."

Still looking at me with those immovably clear eyes, he nodded, "Okay."

We moved on to the clearing at the edge of the lake. Orange and golden yellow leaves lay lightly on the black surface, like paper boats waiting to play with a breeze that never came. Reflections of the clouds looked like a painting until a loon popped up, sending ripples through the canvas. Then, the loon dove again.

"A dollar bet says the loon appears over there," I pointed.

"You lose a dollar, then. Over there," he pointed elsewhere.

"Where, exactly?"

Sergei huffed, "Oh, my dear, look." He placed one hand on the small of my back, let his cane fall, and pointed again with the other, "Watch."

The pressure of his hand on my back ignited a heat throughout. No one had really touched me in two years. I reached around my back with my right hand and slipped my fingers beneath his. He pulled his hand away, possibly thinking I meant to shoo him, but I grasped his fingertips and gently pulled his arm around me, resting my hand on his.

"Now, Professor Marchenkov, where exactly is the loon?"

"Lower your voice, or you scare him away," he murmured in my ear, the scent of tea and honey and vodka on his breath. "Now, give me your hand and point. I guide you." He wrapped his chilly fingers around my hand as I pointed, our hands rose together, then stopped. The loon popped up, somewhere else, looked our way, and dove.

I giggled, "Well, I think we're either both out of a dollar, or both get to keep one." I turned my head towards him, "And you forgot your gloves. Your hands are cold." I unbuttoned my coat before he could escape, and slipped his hands underneath the flaps and around my midriff.

"No, we...,"

"Shh," I whispered, "I still want to see the loon."

He tightened his arms around me, then rested his chin in the crook of my neck. Silence, save for his breathing and the titter of chickadees. "It's so quiet here," I said.

"Mm, yes."

"And beautiful."

"You are beautiful." He sounded as if about to fall asleep, "And warm." He pressed himself against me, and even through my winter clothes, I realized he was hard. I leaned back into him, my head cocked to catch anything he might say.

"Yes, beautiful here," he uttered, breathing harder and barely rubbing against me. I closed my eyes, my grip ever tightening yet careful of his hands, wishing we were at his apartment. After a few minutes in this clutching embrace, he tensed, gasping into my neck. He held me a moment, then sighed, "Oh no, I am sorry, so sorry... lunacy."

I loosened my grip and turned to face him within our embrace. His eyes wide and wet, I took his face in my hands and kissed him, "Don't worry. Don't be sorry. You felt good, too. Maybe next time, we...,"

"We should go." The veil in his eyes came down, my hands fell from his face, and his from my waist. I buttoned my coat and picked up his cane.

I remembered nothing from the walk to his apartment. Standing at the threshold to get my pocketbook and bid goodbye, I slipped my hand behind his head and kissed him again, quickly. His fleeting smile felt like confusion to me.

The elusive loon.

***

Back in my apartment, I never felt so cold and checked the thermostat--sixty-eight degrees, normal, yet I felt like my breath would solidify mid-air in that dark, murky haze that sometimes seemed to hang in the living room.

I took off my coat and hung my pocketbook on the chair, then filled a small pot with water for tea, because I didn't have a kettle, then laughed out loud. I didn't have tea, either. I shook my head and dumped the water. I could have a warm bath, though.

Steam rose in the bathroom as I paced between the kitchen and the bedroom, wringing the clothing off my body and throwing it in a corner. I turned down the water to cool and mixed it with my hand, frowning all the while, unable to make coherent thoughts about what happened, and unable to think about anything else. Tea and conversation, vodka and reveals, embraces by a lonely black lake, no one else around but chickadees and a loon.

My phone rang and I ignored it. It wouldn't be Sergei anyway because he still didn't have my phone number. Maybe it was on the class roster. I wasn't sure. I didn't think he'd call me anyway. And what should I call him now? Did I have to revert to Professor Marchenkov?

I slipped into the tub, the warm water rising up, embracing every curve as only water can. Shit, I was even starting to like him, and I had started it, hadn't I? Leading the man away from home and deep into woods he didn't know, initiating an embrace in an isolated place. I liked how he felt and maybe would have led him further if he'd the guts to follow, or was that lonely, horny me acting up and the professor had the guts not to initiate anything?

My hands waved gently while I tried to clear my head, focusing on the mild current moving around my body and along my skin. Just breathe, just be.

After a while, I moved to shift position, the weight of my wet hair pulling back on me, triggering memories of Laslan. I recalled those times when, after a couple of years, I felt badly about myself, that I'd never measure up, and we needed to break up and move on. But no; 'Callie, I'm sorry... I need you... I love you...,' blah blah blah. Rinse, repeat. The cycle of The Fool and the Narcissist, as I figured out too late.

I peeled my hair off the tub, then resettled. Did I sense a safe haven in the professor? Or someone to play with since he was leaving soon? No, please, Calliope, don't treat him that way. Maybe I truly liked him. Eto vseu. Or did I? I opened my eyes in my dark bathroom, in my quiet apartment, then closed them. Let instinct wander without censor, so I wondered, if it were his hand and not mine wandering over my breasts, like this, over my nipples that hardened with the caress and the thought, and if I lay alongside him, teasing him with my naked thigh, my blossom offered, I wondered, I wished, would he do this...

Chapter 11

Sunday morning I didn't feel so hot. Thankfully, no family dinner today since Thanksgiving blessed us a few days earlier. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I'd shop for a gift for Mitzi's kids today. Wait, it's the weekend after Thanksgiving, so hell no! Besides, what was I gonna do? Sign the card, 'Love, Wannabe-Auntie Cal', the stranger Mitzi mentioned once in a while? She had moved on, as everyone should. But still, I loved those chubby cheeked-girls in the pics she texted, even if maybe I wasn't cut out for motherhood with my luck.

I stretched and nearly reached for my phone on the bedside table, but of course, it was still plugged in on the kitchen counter. Well, I had to get up someday. I shuffled to the kitchen and checked my phone; nothing new since the odd calls with no messages. Probably telemarketers finally appropriated my phone number regardless of the care I took in sharing it. I shrugged; it seemed shit had a way of catching up.

I brewed coffee and stared at the page of a book for a while. In the afternoon, I ambushed Gam and coerced her into a shopping trip at a nearby thrift store. She couldn't complain about the prices, I wanted the company, and we both escaped the holiday shopping crush at the big stores. "Oh, such junk!" she waved her hands at the knick knack shelf until a porcelain terrier caught her eye, "Except this little guy." She reached with a shaky hand, then handed the little dog to me for safekeeping. She watched me place it in our shopping basket, then whispered, "Oh, Calliope, just slip it in your pocket. They'll never know." I laughed out loud, drawing both attention and Gam's ire, "Shush, Calliope, now you blew it!"

"Gam, I'll shell out the three bucks and buy it for you. Come on, let's do a little more Christmas shopping."

"Humbug."

We browsed the sweater rack and pocketbooks, and before she tired out, the bookshelves. I found a few books for Jordan as gifts. He was a deep and varied reader, although you'd never think it, and just before the last row came to a close, I found a copy of A Christmas Carol wedged between Twilight and a Nora Roberts novel. Good story, but I had read it several times already, so pass.

"All right, come on, Gam, let's pay up and go party."

"Coffee and donuts and call it Christmas," she frowned.

I smiled, "Good. I like your change of heart." We took our place in line and waited at the register when suddenly I pushed the shopping basket into Gam's arms and said, "Wait here. I'll be right back."

I hustled to the books and plucked out A Christmas Carol, a classic story of a grumpy old man who has a change of heart during the holidays. Who knows? It might come in handy.

***

Thank God for the distracting Sunday with Gam, then a busy Monday. By Tuesday morning, I talked myself out of skipping class. Four weeks remained until the end of the semester, and what was I going to do, skip those weeks, too? No. Class is paid for, I recalled someone saying. I had to finish and had to face him one way or another.

Everyone sat in familiar spots. Sergei, I mean, Professor Marchenkov, wore his usual dark suit, but set his briefcase flat and quietly on the lectern. His movements seemed unusually stiff and he never looked my way. I felt like an intruder that everyone ignored, yet still knocked the room's vibe out of whack. The entire lecture sounded as if underwater, until his eto vseu rang clear. A pang of sickness hit me when I realized that I had to move. Class over, get out. He nodded curtly to me, as I to him, on my way past. No wave, no calling after me.

Once outdoors and grateful for the cold air, I made a beeline for the parking lot, tipping my head back to stem the tears. Work next and no desire to arrive with bleary eyes.

Thursday's lecture felt like Tuesday's. That stony veil in the professor's eyes remained and he never called on me, like I'd disappeared. It struck me as oddly immature, but then, the lecture hall was our only common ground, and how could he request my special attention without others' notice? Hmm. At dismissal, I didn't nod goodbye, but flowed out with the other students. I didn't even bother to shove my pen and notebook into my pocketbook.

However, I hadn't given up.

***

A week passed since the Sunday afternoon with Gam. I helped set the table at Mom's while she placed a tuna casserole on the trivet. "Mom, it's wintertime. Why are you wearing that pink skirt?"

"Because it's pretty."

"Not with that brown sweater." I don't think she heard my last comment, and just as well. I sounded like Gam, but didn't want to. Just because I loved Gam didn't mean I liked her.

I filled four water glasses and set them on the table. I sighed. Would Jordan show today, or was I getting the one-two punch, sandwiched between Mom and Dad without ground support?

When we were dating, Laslan sometimes joined us for Sunday dinner. He'd grin like a moron at Mom, the easiest target, while Jordan mostly ignored him and Dad remained characteristically oblivious. Dinner would pass pleasantly enough until Jordan and Dad temporarily excused themselves between dinner and dessert and Mom bustled after bundt cake slices. Then Laslan would leer at me, "I don't think your family likes me much. Why is that?" Always a sonic shock to my gut. Doing everything I thought was right by having dinner with family and possibly, maybe someday-fiancèe, only to find out that apparently I was so subtle and devious that I undermined the whole get-together.

I suppose, in retrospect, that he was angry because he couldn't wrap Dad and Jordan around his finger, and I was somehow accomplice to that failure. Now I grinned. Just as well in the long run, and perhaps I really had subconsciously thrown up roadblocks, like my instincts protecting me when common sense failed. What had Karl Jung said? "Make the unconscious conscious, or it will drive you, and you will call it fate." Words that never failed to chill. I just wished I heard them sooner.

Another Tuesday. Only four more classes. I could let the rest of the semester slip through my hands, depart the last class and pretend nothing happened. Or, I could try and reach out one more time.

Near the end of lecture, I pulled a folded note from my pocketbook. The note said how I truly had enjoyed that Saturday, couldn't we still be friends, and my phone number. Finally, class was dismissed. I tapped the note on my desk, waiting for the last chatty student to leave, but several hung by the lectern. Then I realized, what if this note got into the wrong hands? All the pertinent connecting info and a questionable nature lay within. No. I had no desire to get Professor Marchenkov in any trouble although we were both adults.

I stood, shoved the note deep in my pocket, and headed out, leaving the professor to his fan club.

However, instead of taking my usual left out of the building to head towards the parking lot, I turned right. I circumvented the building, hiked through a patch of woods and over a tiny bridge, then cut through the library via the back entrance. I emerged from the side and walked around the back of the Language Arts Building. I peeked around the corner--no professor in sight, yet. I doubted he could have beat me even taking a smoother, more open route, especially considering he had students chatting with him after lecture. Well, I'd sit on the bench in front of the building, ready to ambush him even if I made myself late for work.

And I guessed right. The professor turned the corner of the Language Arts building and nearly stopped when he saw me. Maintaining composure, however, he approached, set down his briefcase, then sat next to me, "So, young lady, you caught me." His slight smile and softened eyes felt like relief, or resignation, or dare I think it--happy to see me?

"Not hard to do when you work on a schedule, and I figured you return here after class," I looked up at the tall brick building. "Were you playing hard to get?" He watched me, but said nothing. I waited until a pair of students passed, then continued, "Listen, I'll keep this short because I know your department is right here," I moved closer and lowered my voice, "but please don't give me the cold shoulder because of what happened. If anything, we should probably talk about it, not ignore it." I lay a gentle hand on his arm, "I really did have a wonderful afternoon with you--the whole afternoon. I like you, Sergei, and don't worry, I'm not gonna run to the head of the department about it." I smiled, "I mean, hell, I started it anyway."

He bowed his head over his hands, rubbing them even through the gloves. I leaned back to give him space and time, and over his shoulders, saw two people, I assumed professors, staring at us as they climbed the steps. I glared at them until they turned their heads and continued on their merry way through the doors. Good. Dos vedanya.

I sat and waited in the brisk air, the white winter sun approaching the top of the sky. He cleared his throat, his profile still to me, "Calliope." He went quiet, then, "Calliope, I have thought about you every day since." He smiled just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, "And, I confess, sometimes before." He sat up and looked at me, "But, I think it is best we don't get involved."

I felt like my face literally dropped, and he must have noticed, "Please believe me, I enjoyed Saturday, too, but...,"

"That's okay." I stood briskly, securing my pocketbook over my shoulder. I looked up to the sky and blinked hard. "I get it. I do. And I guess I agree. See you Thursday, Professor."

I walked away and did not look back. It sucks being a stranger in a strange land.

Chapter 12

Ka-ching in the Holidays. Second weekend after Thanksgiving and the Holiday Speedracers revved their shopping carts, racking up their credit cards and turning the holiday of faith, family and food into a financial wreck. My family and I avoided great expenditure; we didn't have any money anyway and found happiness in the same kinds of inexpensive gifts year after year, for which I felt grateful. Dad even poached us a real Charlie Brown Christmas tree from the deer hunting woods. Entering at dusk, he'd hunt, cut, and drag the prize from the woods after dark and shove it under the tarp in his truck. Jordan used to join him until he picked up the weed trade and wouldn't risk unnecessary, potentially illegal adventures. He'd lie to Dad and say he had to work. Funny how dealerhood turned Jordan into a straight arrow.

Holiday buzz brought some distraction from my tumbled feelings about Sergei. As appointed party planner at work, I had to decorate and to arrange the caterer for our in-house party. I called Busy B's Catering and left the likely-overworked company with my name and cell phone number so I wouldn't miss their call-back. Then, I created a handful of flyers for the chosen night-out at the local dive, Jumpy's, for drinks and dancing and chances to trade insults that no one would remember the next day. Bars weren't my scene, but Javin said he'd get congressional approval to join us, providing me with moral support and shooing the flies.

Between work and holidays, I still had about two weeks, that is, four classes before semester's end. I struggled to concentrate on reading at home, yet ironically it was easy to pay attention in class. I had talked myself so deeply into a professional-only attitude towards Sergei, that I really did see only a professor anymore during lecture. He didn't reach out to me, either, though I fancied a sadness in his eyes in those brief nods we came to allow ourselves.

His warm classroom relationship with Iris continued, only slightly guarded now, I thought. I wondered if there had been a time that he insisted she call him Sergei, too. I'd never know, but what I did know is that every time I left that building, my composure crumbled like a cake in the rain. A calling chickadee made my knees wobble. The last of a crimson maple leaf fell before me onto the sidewalk and I'd feel that squeeze in my ears and eyes and walk faster and breath deeper the cold, numbing air.

Wednesday night made it worse. Company night at Jumpy's. The other evening pressman, Alex, hovered around my door, "Cal, you almost ready?"

"Sure," I lied, "let me wrap up a few things and I'll meet you guys outside."

"Right. Don't wanna be late for your own party, huh huh." Alex started yelling to Javin before he even reached the silent pressroom. Eventually both of their voices disappeared behind the heavy thunk of the back door.

Ready? No. I had to swallow hard three times in a row. Everyone loved Jumpy's, including Laslan, but if he was there, I'd just have to cling to my people and deal with it. And wouldn't you know, he had especially loved Wednesday 'Ladies Night' when drinks were cheap(er) and he could show off in front of other women, presumably to make me jealous. Then he'd get drunk while I nursed a beer all night because someone had to drive home.

Brush it off, I thought, shutting down the computer and locking the doors. Javin and Alex leaned against their cars, shouting and laughing back and forth, their condensing breaths in the air creating diaphanous creatures that morphed and dissipated under the sulfurous glow of the streetlamp. I waved, they nodded, and we headed to Jumpy's in our respective cars.

I heaved a sigh pulling into the lot and shimmied my car into a sliver of parking spot. I swear, they painted the spots close together to make the place look busier, although around the holidays and weekends, they didn't need to. Anyway, I shut off the engine and waited, watching Javin and Alex find spots, and of course, looking for Laslan's red sports car, if indeed he still had that car. I didn't see it.

Javin, Alex and I passed through Jumpy's squeaky, stinky door single-file, with me hiding behind Javin until I could survey the crowd. So far, so good. We spotted our gang, then side-tripped to the bar. Alex slapped down a twenty dollar bill, grinned at me, and shouted, "Shirley Temples on me." I shook my head while he ordered Sierra Nevadas for him and Javin. My eyes grazed the ranks of bottles behind the bar and halted. I pointed at some bottles. Alex followed my pointing finger and said, "Vodka? All right! Which one?"

"Stolichnaya, a shot," I shouted above the music in my best Russian accent. Javin must have heard me and looked at me funny. We got our drinks, then we squeezed and dodged our way to the table.

Everyone laughed and yelled with abandon, especially the ones who arrived earlier. Despite my smile, my hand shook bringing the shot glass to my lips and I sipped. The velvet heat on my tongue and down my throat felt not exactly the same as Sergei's vodka, but there I sat again on his patio nonetheless, warm and quiet, gazing over the trees, talking, walking, touching...,

I felt a touch on my elbow, "Hey Cal, you been starin' into space the past ten minutes," Javin said, "Whut's up?"

I shook my head, "Oh, just nothing much."

"You sure?"

I didn't want to ruin the party, so I smiled, "Yeah, I'm fine." I put down the unfinished shot.

"Come and dance, then," he flashed his megawatt smile and offered his hand. I took it.

"Won't Cherise get jealous?" I shouted.

"Nah, it'd be good for her. Remind her of what she's got!" he yelled back.

And what she had, I wanted, too; a good partner, a home, kids. "Why didn't she get a babysitter and join us?"

"Nope," he waved, "bars aren't her scene."

Javin and I danced a few tunes, then we rejoined the party. I had a good time after all, but I still couldn't wait to go home.

***

Wednesday, a week after the party at Jumpy's, and one day before the semester's end. I stood by the office window, watching the brown leaves in the grove of oaks cling tenaciously to their branches, despite the blunt winter wind. Last class tomorrow. Surrender and say goodbye, or cling to one last try?

I sat at my desk and untangled a bag of loose ribbon and itty bitty Christmas chaff, all scooped and saved by Mr. Garabedian from Christmas Parties Past. Sometimes his thriftiness seemed eccentric; on the other hand, over the years he'd built a sizable concern from a much smaller shop, so he obviously knew something. I smiled--tenacity. Business slowed this time of year, so right at eight, I stuffed some spare ribbon into my pocketbook, shut down the shop, and Javin and I left.

At home, I lit a candle in the living room and stirred a cup of cocoa. The matryoshka smiled and I willed her to talk to me, but dolls do not talk. It's that simple. And people couldn't read your mind or heart. You had to hit them over the head with plain words.

I looked at A Christmas Carol shimmied into the bookshelf, got up, and shimmied it out. I grabbed a pen, sat at the kitchen table, and inside the cover of the book, I wrote my name, address, phone number, and a note;

Professor,

Life is clumsy. The semester is over, the year at an end, and if this really is the end, then I wish you well. However, it's also the start of a new year, a beginning.

Peace and goodwill,

Your ex-student and friend,

C. Winter Winthrop

***

Thursday. Last class. Lecture burbled in my ears like I listened underwater. I suppose the other students paid attention because their Russian studies continued in the spring semester. Scholastically, I was finished. Personally remained to be seen.

Professor Marchenkov released us early with some sort of Russian salutations. I packed my notebook, slipped out A Christmas Carol wrapped in the stolen red ribbon, and remained seated until every student said bye, and thanks, see you next year, etc. Only Iris lingered, seeming to flirt with Sergei, although the way he fidgeted with his gloves suggested he felt more than ready to go.

Too bad. My turn.

I stood and thumped my pocketbook on each desk I passed on the way to the lectern. I stared at Iris, who then said, "So yeah, anyway, see ya' next semester, Professor," and with a toss of her auburn curls and wearing heavy boots, scuffed out the door. We watched her leave, then he took a deep, wavering breath as I turned to him and said, "Well, Professor, end of semester."

"Yes," he smoothed the fingers of his glove.

"Christmas soon." I set the book on the lectern and slid it towards him, "Maybe you've read it. I don't know. It's about a man who has a change of heart."

Wide-eyed, he quit fidgeting, then touched the book. "It has been a long time, but yes. Thank you," he murmured.

I looked at him a moment more, then at the floor, then left.

***

Saturday, my great lazy day off. I slept too late and the ceiling seemed to spin and I wasn't drunk, not even hungover. I stretched my arms, imagining I was a college student starting a month of vacation. All that time. I wondered if my professor would read the book I gave him, wondered if he missed our conversations like I did. We never had the chance to have enough of them. And I missed how I felt with his arms around me and wondered again, was I just lonely and horny and anyone would do? Had he felt the same? I clapped my hand over my eyes, "Please God, not this again. Please distract me!"

Careful what you wish for.

The click of the mailbox lids out front picked me out of my stew, "Thank you, Lord!" I threw back the blanket, peeled out of bed, got the mail, and brought it to the kitchen table. I hoped for a card from Mitzi, although she was likely hopelessly busy and probably still reading my overly-long greetings sent weeks ago. I sifted through a bill, a bill, a flyer, a credit card come-on (ha ha), and a card! But not Mitzi's handwriting. No return address and postmarked South Surry, just this past Thursday.

I lay the card on the smooth white table. This can't be good. My face felt long, but I opened the envelope anyway and slipped out a plain folded card;

Dear Ms. Winthrop,

Thank you for the kind gift of A Christmas Carol. Is it a lesson to use articles? Humor. I confess I have not read it in many, many years.

Life is not clumsy. All of its flaws and deformities have grace, beauty, and purpose we do not always understand. I leave in June without fail and will not forget you. Ever. You are young and beautiful. The world misses you. Go back out and find your joy before you are old, and let no one take it from you. Never.

All the best,

S. A. Marchenkov

So. My gaze drifted to the ink drawing of a tree with weaving limbs that hung on the wall, then back to the austere white note, which I let fall to the floor like a dried-up leaf.

***

A knock at the kitchen door woke me up from a long nap to a dark room. Apparently I'd slept all afternoon into evening, or late afternoon at least. This time of year it was dark around four. I turned on the kitchen light and peeked through the curtain. George. I opened the door.

"Hey, Cal, annual check-up, smoke detectors and fire extinguisher. My Christmas gift to you," he chuckled, lugging in a stepstool, small tool bag, and a handful of batteries that clunked on the table. "Never can be too careful."

"Huh, is that why you ride a motorcycle all hours of the night?" I asked.

George growled and shook his head, "You sound like my mother. God rest her soul, 'cause I sure didn't give her any rest." He set the stool under the smoke detector in the kitchen, took one step, and removed the old battery, "Switch." I took the old battery, put it in my pocket, and handed him a new one, "No work tonight?" I asked.

"Nah, rearranged the schedule because they're open longer hours and hired a second chef, too. Fine by me. Nice to have a Saturday off once in a while."

"Got anything special planned?"

He finished shutting the detector, and stepped down, "Yep, goin' to bed early."

I smiled, "Now you sound like me."

"Mm hmm." He shook his head, picked up the tool bag and stool, and headed towards the bedroom. The floorboard near the kitchen table creaked beneath his foot, "Damn, I gotta get that fixed. They must of run out of cushioning underneath and put the flooring down anyway."

"Don't worry about it, George. The creak keeps me company."

He huffed as he replaced the battery in the bedroom's detector, then went back to the kitchen. He took the fire extinguisher from beneath the sink and looked at it, "A-okay, still on full. You still know how to use this, right?"

"Yes."

"Rip this tag off, pull the pin, like a grenade, then squeeze the trigger. Aim at the base of the fire, not at the flames," he pantomimed on the cold black stovetop.

"Yes," I nodded, "and I have a box of salt in case of a grease fire."

"Okay, good." He put the extinguisher away, then stood a moment with hands on hips, looking around. "Well, that should do it for another year." Gathering his stuff, he asked, "So, did you do any special holiday stuff? Parties?" He raised a brow, "Dates?"

Shrugging, I replied, "A couple of parties at work, then I'll go to my parents' for Christmas, the usual. That's all. You? You must miss your folks."

"Sure I do, but I got family in North Carolina I call, and a buddy of mine throws a party every Christmas afternoon for all the lost souls," he grinned.

I opened the door for George. He stepped onto the deck, then turned, "You know, Cal, when you started renting this place and I said all that stuff about not partying, I hope you didn't think you couldn't have a few friends over."

"No, I didn't take it that way. I just don't have a ton of friends. The ones I had moved or drifted away."

George sighed, "Yeah, I hear that. Anyway, just no keg parties or lines on the kitchen counter," he winked and headed down the stairs.

"Then it's a good thing you don't rent to my brother," I called after him and started closing the door. George replied over his shoulder, "Aw, Jordan ain't so bad. Besides, he got the good stuff!"

I stopped and stuck my head out in the cold, "You know Jordan?"

"Hell yeah," George laughed, "everyone knows the dope with the good dope! Good night, Ms. Winthrop."

"Yeah, good night," I mumbled, double-locking the door against the night, against the remaining secrets in the dark. And I wondered, was I the biggest dope of all?

Chapter 13

A special alarm woke me early on Sunday with lots to do; gifts to wrap and cookies to bake before spending the day with Mom. She needed help staging the perfect Christmas scene, anticipating the annual Royal Visit bestowed upon us by Gam, whom I'd pick up in my silver caléche on Wednesday, Christmas Eve Day.

A tube of last year's clearance wrapping paper, green with ugly reindeer, lay on the kitchen table alongside tape, scissors, and pilfered ribbon. Measuring cups and spoons and sugar and flour lay spread across the kitchen counter, ready to start my favorite holiday activity; baking cookies from scratch. But first, I brewed a cup of tea before tackling the dough, dunking the bag up and down and wondering why I'd bought tea. Oh well, might as well use it up. I played Christmas songs on iTunes, and got to work measuring, mixing, and stirring, patting the warm, spicy brown dough into a log to chill in the fridge. The phone rang as I washed my hands, again I ignored it. Probably offering an extended auto warranty that cost more than my car was worth.

Sipping lukewarm tea and clipping paper, humming along with songs and wrapping a gardenia candle for Mom, my thoughts lolled from my recent rejection to missing Mitzi to ghosts of Christmas past, particularly my dear old Grandad. He seemed happier as a memory, a 'Renaissance man', as Mom described him gardening, engraving, woodworking, and teaching Mom much of her horticultural knowledge. 'Drifter, dreamer, dummy,' Gam summarized. Well, I always loved him and the kind smile he always had for me, even after Alzheimer's set in. I always wondered if he didn't fake some of his dementia, if possible, to tune out Gam. I never understood her hostility.

Dad's six pack of Coors Light came under wraps next. Same gift every year and he seemed to love it--no surprises and just 'Hey, all a man needs!' I smiled, thinking about my simple dad, a Grizzly bear led about on a string by my mother, but I wished he'd growled more often.

After an hour, I rolled out the chilled dough and stamped out two trays of gingerbread men, possibly the only man Gam ever really liked. I set aside a few for Geroge, Javin's boys, and Mitzi's parents, then I thought of one for that old man. Stop it! No.

While the cookies baked, I cleaned up, then sat. Inhaling the molasses-tinted air and sipping cold tea, I wondered how Professor Marchenkov would spend the holidays. Here? Return to Russia? Seemed too close to his departure to go home now. Anyway, I reminded myself not to care, but then, I didn't want to turn sour like Gam, or cold like Laslan, who never quit the wisecracks about our old decorations or crooked tree. Asshole. Then, I thought of George, with no kin nearby and grabbed an envelope and piece of paper;

George,

Hey, should that Christmas party fall through for any reason, give me a call. There's a seat for you at our Christmas dinner. Just ignore Jordan. I do.

Cal

I slipped the envelope into a plastic bag along with George's cookies and left it on his back porch. Then I loaded the gifts and cookies into my car. Another Christmas without someone special, except my family. Oh well. Start from scratch. Again.

***

"Calliope, bringing home anyone special for Christmas?" Mom asked, peeking around the kitchen door as I dumped gifts and my pocketbook on the couch. I brought the cookies into the kitchen and said, "Yeah, these guys." She frowned, then I said, "Okay, no Mom. I want you guys all to myself this year. But how about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost? They haven't been here in a while."

Peeling potatoes over the sink, the brown ribbons falling into the compost bowl, she said, "I don't think we have enough room for that many people at the table. I was only wondering. Maybe room for that nice-looking boy, Lionel."

I refused to correct her... don't mention his name, lest he appear. "Listen, Mom, he wasn't all that nice in private, okay? And there's things that, well, never mind." I couldn't finish, so I grabbed a potato and scrubbed it under a stream of cold water.

"Well, what?" Mom asked, her hands froze mid-air with potato and peeler.

"Just, well, he was mean when no one was looking."

Mom shook her head, "Well, I certainly didn't see it. Maybe you're spoiled."

My potato fell with a thud in the sink and I shook off my hands, "Now you sound like Gam. I'm gonna go untangle those crappy lights."

"Calliope, watch your mouth."

Calliope, watch your mouth, I mimicked as I walked away. The spongy brown couch hissed as I plunked down, then I dragged the tattered cardboard box of tangled Christmas lights closer. Mom and Dad cared for their property haphazardly, and as a result, anything done around the house required twice the time and thrice the money. I shook my head, bracing for an hour of untangling these damn lights, which Dad would cast carelessly like fishing nets over the overgrown junipers. No wonder kids on the school bus used to giggle at our erratic displays and shout Christmas vomit!, until ours became a town that hired professional light hangers. Then we were eerily ignored.

Into the third string, I got bored. "Mom? Mom! Is Jordie here later?" No answer. "Mom!"

Finally, "No!" she yelled from the kitchen, clattering about. "Working late at the Barn."

Right. The Tire Barn closed at four pm on Sundays, but I didn't blame Jordan for skipping forced family fun, especially with Christmas around the corner. That's enough family time to last months, maybe even a year.

Mom then launched into how Jordan stood right around the corner from a promotion and Dad got a raise at Walmart and so on. Cheerful chatter. Pie-in-the-sky. Pie baking in the decades-old oven and tangled lights in a tattered box. Nothing special this Christmas, then I stopped short and reminded myself that I had a good job, my health, and for better or worse, my family. With all that, maybe I could live with loneliness after all. Just a quiet holiday, no surprises.

Eventually about half the strings, tested and working, lay neatly coiled next to each other on the floor. I pulled at another from the box, tangled up like a lobster trap line washed up on the beach, when my phone rang. I nearly reached for it, but why? It's Sunday. Let it go to voicemail.

I resumed my work, listening to Mom open and shut the creaky oven door. The phone buzzed again. "Oh, fuck nuggets! Who calls twice in a row on Sunday?" Who called me, period, except maybe work? But then, I remembered that I'd left my phone number in that book I gave to Sergei. Maybe... I grabbed the phone; New Hampshire area code and local exchange, otherwise unknown and I didn't know his number anyway, so;

"Hello?" I answered at the last ring.

Breathing, nothing more. I repeated, "Hello? Who is this?"

"Hah! Wow! Hey hey, Cal-i-o-pay! Callie Callie Callie...,"

My heart dropped. That voice, that bombastic tone. How did he get my number?

"Hey, Callio-pay, you there? Long time, huh? So, you're a vodka girl, now."

I hung up and clasped the phone in my hands between my legs to smother the demon. The scent of baking pie turned nauseating. "Mom, gotta go! Problem at work." I grabbed my pocketbook and nearly ripped the car keys off the carabiner.

Mom emerged from the kitchen, her hands dripping, "But Calliope, the lights!"

"Broken, Mom, they're all broken," I yelled, yanking the door closed behind me.

***

I didn't even look around. I slipped into my car, locked the door and backed out, spitting gravel up underneath. Throwing the car into drive, I gripped the wheel at ten and two and hit the gas. Thankfully Dad was home in case Laslan's next surprise included a visit. But I could not face him. His ever more erratic blaming behaviour towards the end still terrified me, and no one had experienced the subtle madness like I had. I couldn't explain it to anyone. Mitzi never warmed to him, and Jordan saw right through him, but most people otherwise fell for his charm, when he chose to use it, and I felt too embarrassed to admit my blindness.

Flurry-laced wind froze my face and nerves as I drove aimlessly through backroads, praying Laslan had called from afar, not lurking nearby and now knowing the car I drove. But hell, he might know what I drove now anyway. But did he know about my apartment? Shortly before we even broke up, I had put my moving plans into motion. I left Mom's quickly and quietly with just a few carloads of items, no big furniture and no moving van.

Nonetheless, I couldn't go home, and I couldn't drive around all night. I had cookies for Mitzi's parents, but if I visited now, they'd know something else was wrong. I couldn't stay over at Gam's, and hotels were ridiculously expensive around here. My eyes teared up as I raced down a forest road, trunk after dark tree trunk speeding by. I cursed Jordan for not having an apartment of his own in some secluded area.

Uh oh. Oh, no no no.

Yes yes yes. I had to. I'd only been there once before, and I'd bet every penny I had that Laslan didn't know Sergei or where he lived. I bit my trembling lip. Sergei's words still stung, but I desperately needed a hideout, not a rambling road trip driven by pride.

I steered the car back to a bigger road which eventually funneled into the far campus parking lot. I jerked to a stop, checked my face, swung my pocketbook across my chest and left my car.

Looking over my shoulder, I walked briskly towards the library by the woods. Campus activity almost didn't exist on this Sunday afternoon, the eve of Christmas break, which proved good and bad; I saw everyone clearly, but then, anyone would notice me, too. If they were looking. Despite my lack of coat, sweat broke out on my forehead as I race-walked to the library. Running would have attracted attention.

My phone buzzed, making me jump, but I checked it anyway, "Hey, Mom, what's up?" I panted.

"You want me to put a plate aside for you and keep it warm?"

"Sure."

"I hope everything's okay at work, but really, why are they open on Sunday? They really should...,"

"Everything's good. Love ya, Mom. Bye." I hung up before shoving through the heavy glass doors of the library, thankfully open today. I wove through hushed aisles and snuck down rear stairwells, feeling angry enough to punch through the sickly lime-green cinder blocks. I hated him, still this hold on me, and I hated myself--such a coward! Hah! So much for water under the bridge, running from someone who humiliated me to someone for whom I must swallow my pride or sleep in a public restroom.

I exited a door in the library basement by the path to the woods, and towards Sergei's apartment. The cold air hit me again, but made me ask, was I really in danger, or had I driven myself into paranoia? Either position sucked, as I scrubbed the crusted sweat off my forehead, shivering since the rush of motion and emotion ebbed, taking my body heat with it.

Yes, I still needed an unknown place to go, maybe until well after dark. Reaching a generous maple tree by the road near Sergei's apartment, I hid behind the trunk, watching the few cars crawling by. I felt so stupid, hiding like a naughty child from her angry mother. No one should have to hide like this. Regardless, I watched the drivers for several minutes, but only saw families or Mom-types or silver-haired men moving along, minding their own business.

Minding their own business, as I should mine and leave the professor out of this. I leaned into the unmoved trunk, then blew white breath into the air and traced my finger along an 'L' carved into the bark. L for Laslan? Love? Loser. I barely smiled. What would I say to Sergei, if he was even home? The truth, Callie, so just go. The worst thing he could do was turn me away. Again.

The shudder racking my shoulders intensified as I crossed the street and climbed those hard steel steps, my face likely red and raw. Closing my eyes and saying a prayer I barely remembered, I approached his door and nearly knocked when I heard his voice from inside. He sounded angry. Had he seen me from the window and perhaps cursed me? I listened; no, the pattern of rapid speech and brief silence sounded like a heated phone call.

I paused, then took a step back and turned to leave when I heard the double-thunks of car doors closing. A couple carrying bags approached the apartments. I turned again before they could see my face and stepped back to Sergei's door.

Dread befell me before the first knock, but the sun set quickly in winter. I knocked until my knuckles hurt. Silence, then clicks. Sergei peered through the cracked door. His squinting eye grew wide, "Calliope?" He shut the door.

I heard a few angry, muffled words, a clack, then the door swung open.

Chapter 14

Sergei ushered me in with a sweeping open hand. He stared at me as he locked the door, then reached for my pocketbook. "What on Earth?" He hung the pocketbook on a hook, then took my elbow, even forgetting my shoes. "You freeze! Come, sit. I make you tea."

"I... I'm...," The frozen tears on my eyelids melted and I shivered again.

"Shush for now. Sit."

I kicked off my shoes at the door, then took the same seat as before, facing the kitchen. Sergei lay his phone face-down on the counter, flicked on the stove beneath the kettle, and collected cups and tea bags. He had a flush from the neck up, as if angry, not the cold-bitten redness of cheeks in winter or the red-rimmed eyes of a broken heart.

I waited for him to ask me why the hell I was here, but nothing came forth but hot tea. Surely he must have felt even angrier, having to abruptly end his phone call and attend a wayward bird.

"Sergei, uh, Professor Marchenkov...,"

He brought a finger to his lips, "Rest. Warm up. We have time." He cocked his head, "And I have told you, Sergei, please."

I almost said, 'But that was when...,' but shushed myself. Don't bite the hand that soothes you. Instead, I said, "It's nice to hear you tell me that again." I dabbed my eyes with my sleeve, my cheeks tingling in the warm kitchen. My body felt as if it melted into the chair, and I realized I hadn't thought about Laslan for three whole minutes. Maybe that didn't sound like a big deal, but it was like a Christmas miracle to me.

The kettle steamed, not yet whistling. Sergei poured, then set the tea on the table, no lemons, no honey. Slowly, he pulled back his chair and sat. Stiffly, I thought.

He breathed deeply, then, "So, what brings you here in such a state? Keen to see me again?" he smiled, his eyes sunken and dark. I nearly apologized and bolted, but he pushed a teacup to me.

"I'm sorry I barged in." A sharp inhale stifled another bout of tears, "I got your letter," my throat tightened, "but that's not it." I lowered my voice before it cracked, "I came over because...," Sergei rose and returned with tissues, which I needed. "I'm ... I'm sorry," I croaked.

"Take your time, dear," he gently patted my arm.

Sobbing through a tissue, then blowing my nose, I thought, he just called me dear. Then he mustn't hate me. Oh, good Lord, why would he have hated me? Finally, the tears exhausted themselves and I tried to laugh, "Ew. I must look like, just ew."

Sergei laid his hand on mine and kept it there. I looked at our hands, smiled and yawned, then began, "Okay, so, I was at Mom's for Sunday dinner and getting the house ready."

"Her cooking so bad?" He did not smile but that twinkle in his eyes appeared.

"No," I smiled.

"I interrupt. Go on."

I looked to the ceiling for a moment, then turned my hand over to hold his. "My ex called me."

I watched Sergei's face. He frowned and said, "The shithead?"

Snorting, I confirmed, "Yeah, the shithead."

"And this disturbs you so much?"

"Yes. I changed my car and my phone and moved. I even left Facebook," I shrugged. "Didn't like it anyway, but still."

"Because of him?"

"Yep. I never wanted to hear or see him again, but I can't move far away because of family and money and why the fuck should I have to move anyway, even though I hate it here sometimes and my best friend moved and she's never coming back and she's the only one who'd believe that...,"

He gripped my hand, "Slow, Calliope, I have all night to listen, is okay."

My free hand, shaky, brought the delicate teacup precariously to my lips. The tea nearly spilled as I struggled to set it down. "It's not okay," I whispered.

Sergei leaned in, "Pardon?"

I watched the light reflecting in the tea, then I looked at Sergei and said, "Laslan raped me."

His jaw dropped. He leaned back, his hand withdrawing from mine. He exhaled, then took back my hand, "Did you tell anyone? Police?"

I snorted, "Tell anyone? Tell who? The people who thought he was such a catch? The people who didn't like him? The people who knew I dated him nearly three years, and why would he suddenly up and rape me?"

"Yes." Sergei glared, "This is a crime." He gripped my hand.

I should have been teary-eyed again, but felt distant instead, "No. Laslan's father is some bigwig lawyer who never liked me, never thought I was good enough for his son. If I reported Laslan, it would fly through the grapevine so fast that some Yankee hillbilly was trying to fleece him because he wouldn't marry her."

"You wanted to marry him?" Sergei wrinkled his face.

Shrugging, I took back my hand and managed to sip my tea without a spill. "I thought marriage was the next logical step, but boy, was I stupid."

Sergei leaned back again, regarding me for a moment. "No. Three years in a bad relationship, better than a lifetime."

"Yeah, you can say that again."

"I'd rather not." He shook his head, sighing, then said, "So, is not really my business, but how did this happen? Where?"

Deep breath. I can do this. Proud of my calmed demeanor, I launched; "Well, okay, so I felt that we should get married, you know, to solidify things and that maybe it would keep our relationship from getting worse. Naïve on my part, but I believed that you work on a difficult relationship, not abandon it, but that's a whole other story. Anyway, eventually I started to see the light, that I wasn't to blame for much of what he conjured, and that we needed to go separate ways. I told him that several times, but always got the Calliope-I-need/want/love-you crap." I shook my head, "I put up with that for a few more months, then one Saturday, I met him publicly, at a noisy lunch place...," Suddenly, the blonde oak chairs and red tile floor of the restaurant bloomed before my eyes. A sharp inhale caught me before I continued, my confidence shaken, "I told him we were one-hundred percent done. I told him that I did not fucking care how he felt," I splayed my hands flat on Sergei's cool table, "I'll never forget that look in his eyes, cold and hot, glinty, like a dog sizing you up before it attacks."

Sergei watched and listened in silence, but his eyes took on a similar look as that I had just described. Only he wasn't looking at me. He looked through me.

I took a moment, then wrapped my hands around my lukewarm tea, "Anyway, I went home after I broke up with him. I felt so sick yet elated at the same time." I smiled wanly, "Forgot to lock the door. It's a bad habit my family has. No one was home, so I went upstairs to my room and shut the door to lie down for a while. Not long after that, I heard someone come home and come upstairs and stop at my door. I thought it was my brother, Jordan." I half-smiled again, "I even remember yelling, 'Go away, Jordan!'. But he didn't. And it wasn't Jordan." I swallowed hard and snuck a peek at Sergei, who looked as if made of stone. I continued, "He opened the door. I told him to get out. My phone was in my pocketbook downstairs, and I didn't want to scream because it might set him off. God, he had the most pathetic puppy dog eyes, but it looked more like some freakish mask, that cunt. So, I tried to be nice and say, 'We're just not working out, you deserve better,' blah blah blah, but he kept coming closer. Then he put his arms around me and I tried to push him away, but he's so much stronger, and he kept like growling in my ear, 'You're not getting away. I love you.'" My last bit of energy drained, "He spun me around and shoved me over the bed." I stared into the teacup. "My sweatpants were easy to pull down. I just froze."

It was over. For now.

Sergei extended me a moment of peace, then said softly, "You are tired. Lie down a while. I have work, but I do it here in kitchen."

"Are you sure?" I asked, eyes so dry they stung.

"Absolutely. Come," he waved a hand, then scraped his chair back and led me to his bedroom, cool and dim, just off the kitchen. He turned back the covers on the full-size bed, exchanged pillows, and tucked me in like a child, the down comforter enveloping me like a blanket of snow. He then picked up his laptop from the desk by the window. "The blinds, half-open, or close?"

"Leave them," I smiled from within my nest.

"Okay," he nodded, heading out. "And door, open or closed?"

I signaled an inch with my finger and thumb.

"Okay."

"Sergei, thank you."

"Mm."

As my head sank into the pillow, I heard his sigh from the kitchen, the scrape of his chair, then silence. The next thing I remembered was nothing at all.

***

... crashing waves, Mitzi and I laughing and tossing red lobster shells from our granite boulder... tickle on my ankle... look down into a black crevice... Laslan grabs my ankle, won't let go...

My leg jerked me awake. Heart thumping, I stared into the cool blue light of a winter moon until I remembered where I was. Relief washed over me. My gaze then drifted from the window to the desk, to the bookshelf, and I wondered what a visiting professor read in his spare time. I smiled, probably nothing. Then I wondered, how did I go from awkward student to woodland seductress, from rejection letter to frantic drop-in, and finally, snug in his bed? The scattered logic of the frightened and unhinged? I didn't want that. I just wanted to be happy.

Groggy and sweaty from a nap too long and too late in the day, I stretched to pull my sticky clothing from my skin. I peeled myself out of bed, neatened the comforter, and opened the door just enough to peer out.

Sergei must have heard the creak, for he shut his laptop and turned. "Ah, you are with us," he smiled. "And?"

I crept out, "Better." I noticed my phone lying face down on the counter next to his.

"Your mother calls. Several times. I did not answer, that makes it worse, but she must worry."

"Mm," I answered, stepping towards the table.

"Call her."

"Later."

"Calliope. Call your mother."

I turned back to the counter and huffed, "Okay, Dad, okay."

Sergei growled and stood while I pressed Mom's number and watched him drop bread into the toaster.

Mom picked up. "Calliope, aren't you coming to dinner?" I looked at the stove clock--eight pm! "Uh, no Mom. Just put some away for me. Something came up at work, but it's cool now." We chatted a few more minutes so I could restore her to calm and normal and said goodbye. I wondered if she remembered my leaving, or if it only registered that I wasn't there. I turned my phone off completely and lay it on the counter.

Sergei picked the toast out and popped in two more slices, "And?"

"It's all good."

"Good. Sit." He set butter and cheese on the table, "You must be hungry, then we talk about tonight."

Uh oh. Brushing my hands together, I did sit down but said, "Look, you've been more than kind already, so after I eat, I'll take an Uber to my car and...,"

"You stay here," he said, intently buttering his toast. "Dark, late. You had a scare. You stay here."

I stared at him, but he kept buttering his toast, so I asked, "And where will I sleep?"

"In my bed."

"And where will you sleep?" I asked. "You got a magic couch in your closet?"

He grinned, "You would not believe what is in there. I sleep in bed, too, with my pillow between us."

I kept watching him. Finally he noticed me and put down his toast, "Calliope, I promise I will not touch you." The veil came down over his eyes, and rather than relief, I felt sad. I got busy buttering my own toast. We ate a simple dinner in silence. He seemed preoccupied, and I didn't have it in me to talk anymore.

Close to nine o'clock, we finished and I helped him clean up. Dishes washed and dried, he excused himself to ready a few things, and as he turned, I placed a hand on his shoulder, "Sergei...," He placed his hand on mine, "It's good, CeCe." Disappearing into the bedroom, he re-emerged with a set of pajamas, "Here. Extra toothbrush in the bathroom." My fingers brushed his as I took the pajamas, then I changed in the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I crawled into my half of the bed as delineated by the pillow while Sergei finished up in the kitchen, then took his turn in the bathroom and came to bed. He shut off the bedside lamp. "Pocyatnyk snor," he said and lay down with his back to me.

"Sweet dreams," I murmured to him, and closed my eyes.

But Sleep stayed away. The awkward situation and late nap conspired against me, so I lay awake, watching Sergei's side rise and fall with each breath. The higher, brighter moon washed the room in silver light, a cloud passing before it and filling the corners with dark, moving shadows. My long-dormant imagination re-ignited with tiny silver moon fairies banishing the clouds and the shadow monsters with each incoming tide of moonlight. I wondered if Sergei knew how magical his simple room could be with a little moonlight. The only thing missing was human touch.

I slowly pulled the pillow between us away from him and laid it behind me. I moved closer, laying my head on my arm, my other arm draped light as snow around his waist. With my breasts nestled warmly against his back, I closed my eyes and listened to his breathing. What harm could it do? He slept, anyway.

Or so I thought.

A moment later, I felt his hand on mine. My heart skipped a beat, fearing he meant to remove my hand, but he did not. Instead, interlacing our fingers, he sighed and said, "I promised I wouldn't touch you."

I smiled, and with a light squeeze, replied, "Well, I touched you first, so it doesn't count."

He chuckled, "I suppose. Nonetheless, I surrender."

"Surrender? Was it a battle?" I asked.

"Yes, every day. I wanted to see you, but...,"

I rose, leaning on my arm, my long dark hair cascading over my shoulder. Turning him to face me, I asked, "Then why'd you push me away? It hasn't been a battle to me. It's been like a game."

He reached up and touched my cheek, "It's complicated."

"Really?" Sweeping the blanket back, I hiked my leg over and straddled him. He gasped as I nestled into him, "Really? Doesn't feel complicated."

"You surprise me, Calliope," he rested his hands on my thighs.

"How so?" I asked, unbuttoning his pajama shirt, one slow button at a time.

"I think, after what you tell me, you don't want this."

"Want what?" I quit unbuttoning and leaned close to him, his member hardening beneath me.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

I looked at him a moment, then said, "It's horrible when someone assaults you, yes, but you know what else hurts?"

"I can tell you many things, but go on."

"When no one touches you at all." I traced his lip with my fingertip, "When was the last time anyone touched you?"

He groaned and moved, then closed his eyes, "I'm old enough to be your father." He grew even harder. "But you're not my father," I whispered, moving my hips. "Your king is cornered, professor."

"You're a student," he gasped.

"Not anymore." I leaned against him and kissed his nose, "Check."

He smiled, half-opening his eyes, "Calliope, you could have any man you want." His fingertips brushed my ribs, sending an electric pulse throughout. "You really think so?" I kissed his chin.

"Yes."

"Good," I hovered above his lips, "because he's right here. Check mate." I kissed him on the lips, softly at first, his lips soft against mine until he parted them, his hands rising up my back, pulling me closer. His velvet tongue introduced itself politely until he ground his cock hard against me and took control of our kiss. I had to take a breath, wriggled out of the pants and straddled him again only lower, lifting and pulling down his waistband over his generous cock, throbbing in the touchy moonlight.

I stroked him and made him jump. "Oh, sorry! It's sensitive," Sergei chuckled, his head pressed deep into his pillow.

"Aw, poor baby. I'll treat him gentle." I grazed the back of my nails up the shaft, then with the tendrils of my hair. Sergei shivered and groaned, "Good God, be careful."

"That sensitive?"

"No, over that soon," he grinned. "You must have pleasure, too, but," he closed his eyes again, "do what you will."

My pussy ached for him, as did I and I let it guide me. Tickling him with my tongue, I sucked his head, made it good and wet, and with a deep breath, positioned myself for the final leg of the ride. He parted me, and it hurt, but watching each other, his hands resting on my knees, he whispered, "Take your time," until I sunk down on him all the way. Almost whimpering, I leaned over to lie on him again, feeling his breath on my ear, and mine in his, moving together until he came, gasping a few words in his mother tongue, hugging me so hard I could barely breathe. He thrust a few more times, then relaxed his grip. Brushing a strand of hair from my face, he asked, "Did you?"

I smiled, playing with the stubble on his chin, "No. Not this time. It's okay."

"Not this time. Hmm." He loosened his arms, then stroked my hair. "Calliope, what about...,"

"The pill, since Laslan."

"Good. I was not prepared for this."

I sighed, then peeling the case from the extra pillow and tucking it between my legs, pulled the snowy comforter over us and returned to his embrace, "Neither was I."

Chapter 15

Rising through clouds like an angel on her day off, I awoke and opened my eyes. Still in Sergei's arms, I couldn't believe that people actually slept this way. Laslan and I usually ended up on either side of the bed, those few times we spent the whole night together. But anyway, here we were, Sergei and I. My head rose and fell gently with his breath, and when his hand brushed my shirt, I wasn't sure if he still slept and if not, how long had he been awake? I preferred not to disturb the moment with words.

"Good morning, CeCe."

I smirked, "I know you can't see my eyes, so how did you know I was awake?" I squinted against the bright cobalt sky.

"Your breathing changed," he replied.

"Really?"

He chuckled and squeezed me, "No, bluffing."

I propped myself up and gave him a peck on the cheek, "Games again?"

He shook his head, "No games." He curled a strand of my hair around his finger, "But tell me, how do you feel?"

I bit my lower lip, then said, "A little sore, in a good way."

"No, not that." He looked me in the eye, "How do you feel?"

My face drained. I thought for a moment, then said, "I feel vindicated. I feel good," my fingertips played with a graying tuft of hair at his sternum, "but I do like you, too. I don't want you to think I'm just using you."

Strumming my spine, he responded, "All I ask. Remember, I am adult. You can talk openly to me."

I quit playing and looked into those unflinching eyes and nodded. It was all I needed.

"All right," he patted me. "I must get up."

I moved over and helped him push the comforter away. He looked at his bare bottom half, relaxed in the cool room, and growled. He tossed my pj pants to me, then put on his. Grunting and groaning, he moved stiffly to the bathroom and shut the door.

I pulled on my Russian lit professor's pajama bottoms, then slid off the bed and wandered to the window. Raising the blinds revealed a frosted world.

Sergei now rattled about the kitchen. I lingered by the window under the pretense of admiring the sparkling tree limbs, but really, I checked out his desk; a lamp, laptop, pens and paper and books. Then I looked at the wall by the desk; four small framed pictures hung vertically, the bottom three pencil sketches depicting a woman's graceful back in poses. The bottom picture with her arms down, like roots, the middle with her arms resting at her side, like a trunk, and the third, topmost sketch, with her arms held high, like branches. The topmost picture--a small painting of an angel resting on the clouds, looking down.

The angel looked like me.

I gripped the top of the desk chair and stepped back in my bare feet on the cold floor. The signature was in Russian, so he must have brought her with him from home. Was she someone to him?

"My favorites," Sergei murmured behind me, sliding his hands around my waist. Leaning into his embrace, I half-turned to face him, "Now I understand, the first day of class, that funny face you gave me when you looked at me. Geez, and I thought you were reading my mind."

"Thinking what gorgeous man you see?"

"Uh, no, but anyway, interesting artwork," I turned back to the pictures.

"Yes." He rubbed my torso a moment, turned me to face him, then tugged my shirt, "Take this off. You have something I have yet to see."

I smiled coyly, slowly unbuttoning from the top down. He watched with just a hint of smile playing across his lips as one button after the other slowly revealed, then I brushed the shirt off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor as the scent of toast joined us. My breasts, full and smooth in the white morning light, anticipated his touch.

"Now, turn around," he said.

"Turn around?"

"You heard me."

As I turned, Sergei gathered my hair and smoothed it around one side of my neck. I felt his hands glide along my shoulders, then his fingertips down my spine, sending a shiver. "A woman's back, most beautiful part of her body." His hands moved along my ribs with a touch light as snowflakes on skin. "Her back changes as she moves, turns and bends." His hands then swept down and over the small of my back and I thought my knees would give. And they say the 'G' spot is up in there? I don't think so.

"And here," he spoke softly, "how her back curves around her hips." He pressed close, his chin in the crook of my neck, hands roaming up my sides, to my breasts, glancing over my nipples, already hard, "These, they are nice, too, but symmetrical, always look the same. And now...," his hands wandered down. I turned to mush, gripping the chair. He whispered in my ear, "Now, it is time for breakfast."

He withdrew his hot hands and stepped back, slapping my ass, "Put your shirt on. We eat."

I grit my teeth, son of a bitch, and bent on wobbly legs to pick up the shirt. I'd exact my revenge later.

Buttoning up, I wandered to the kitchen counter. Sergei washed and dried a lemon and placed it on a plate while the kettle heated.

"Leemonay."

He smiled, "Lemon, yes. Duolingo?"

"Bingo!"

"No no. I teach you Russian." He removed a thick-handled knife from the drawer. Sidling closer, resting my hip against the counter, I grinned, "Pillow talk?"

"Pillows do not talk." He cut the end off the lemon and sliced a paper thin slice with graceful movement. I watched the blade hover over the edge, then saw steadily through the oily skin, the fluffy white pith, the sac-filled pulp, until a glistening orb curved and fell like a rolling wave.

My hand on his waist, I whispered, "Show me how."

"You know how to slice lemons."

"Not like that. Show me."

He put down the knife and moved aside. I took his place, one hand on the lemon, the other on the knife, "Show me."

"Well, you...,"

"Demonstrate."

"Okay." He placed his right hand over mine, around the knife blade, then he wrapped around me, behind me, placing his left hand over mine to steady the lemon. I pushed the lemon away; he pulled it close. I pushed it away again so he had to lean into me, his chest against my shoulder blades, his cheek by my ear.

"Okay, set knife here, near edge, then relax, breathe in, breathe out, relax... then let blade go back, forth...,"

The first slice didn't turn out like his, so try again. Breathe in, out, relax. "Respiratory pause," I said.

"Pardon?"

"My father taught Jordan and me how to shoot. Respiratory pause at the end of a breath. That's when you pull the trigger."

Sergei chuckled, "Not a warning, I hope?"

I smiled, "No, but who imagined it handy for slicing lemons?"

"Again."

We fell back into the rhythm, the friction warming us as we cut far more slices than necessary. "Too much lemon," Sergei said.

I giggled, "You know what they say, when life hands you lemons?"

"Slice them?"

"No, silly, make lemonade."

"No. Lemonade too sweet. Too much sugar," he complained.

"Too sweet? Too much pie in the sky?"

"Yes, put lemons in tea," he said, still helping me slice waves of citrus suns.

"No," I protested. "Why put something sour into something bitter? Put your vodka in the lemonade and make limoncello. And of course, there's lemon pie!"

Sergei stopped slicing and laughed, "I surrender, again. Who knew you make so much with lemons?"

The poor lemon had no more to give but three intact seeds, which I gathered, rinsed, and placed on a paper towel.

"What do you do with those?" he asked.

"Dry them and plant them."

"Tree from seed will not bear fruit. You need to cut, oh," he wavered his hand, "what do you call it?"

"Graft?"

"Yes, graft."

"We'll see," I shrugged and placed the three seeds on a bit of paper towel.

Dust waltzed in the air, stirred by slicing and steam and two people dancing around each other, preparing the table with toast and jam, honey and tea, and, of course, lemons. I sat, but had forgotten silverware, which he brought to the table, then sat. I watched him spread jam on his toast, steam from the teacups raising a ghostly curtain between us.

"Thank you for the pajamas," I said.

"You are welcome." He put down his toast, then spooned honey into his tea, stirring, then looked at me and said, "Your tea gets cold."

"So? You worry a lot over tea." I leaned over the table, "Are you worried about this?"

He only looked at me briefly, then sipped his tea. I followed suit, partly to placate, partly to buy time, but his shutdown irked me. Spreading jam casually on my toast, I asked, "So, the angel in that picture, is she someone to you?"

He set down his tea, "It's complicated."

I dropped my toast onto the plate, "Yes, you've said that, but look at me." He did so and I continued, "I like you, we made love, and you're leaving in June. Simple. I get it. So you don't have to clam up," my throat tightened.

He held my wrist, "It's not simple, but we cannot discuss everything over breakfast." His steady look warned me, no further. He softened his grip and his hand slipped, "Sorry, Calliope. Just not now."

I nodded, a tear nearly gathering in my eye. I tried to hide a sigh, and reached for a lemon slice with trembling fingers. "When life hands you lemons, add sugar," I mumbled.

I felt his eyes on me as he sat back, wrists resting on the table. "No. Hold the slice to the window."

"Huh?"

"You heard me."

I pinched the slice by the rind and held it to the window. Light illuminated the glistening slice, translucent and riddled with its own reason and structure.

"CeCe, when life hands you lemons, add light."

***

Riddles, light, lemons. We ate breakfast in silence, like dinner, only this time Doubt, not exhaustion, kept me quiet. I glanced at him occasionally. He ate and drank as if I wasn't there, but after we finished, we worked smoothly together clearing the table.

I had started rinsing the dishes when Sergei lay a hand on my arm, "Leave them, I wash later." I dried my hands on a linen cloth, then faced him. He touched my cheek, "I don't mean to keep you out, but some things I can't tell you. Not yet." He looked at the stove clock, then offered his hand, "I have ten o'clock class."

"Yes, I have work, too." That sent a tremor through me that I didn't expect. Eyes wide, not sure how I felt now, I slipped my hand into his anyway.

"Good. We have time." He started pulling me towards the bedroom, then stopped. "But only if you want."

I paused. He felt warm. He gave me space. I wanted more. I gently squeezed his hand and nodded.

He led me into the bedroom, releasing my hand as I walked to the bed and turned. He closed the door, and putting a finger to his lips, said, "We don't want the neighbors to hear." The door shut with a click, and he leaned back against it. I waited for him to join me, but he stayed put. "Undress," he said.

Last night in the moonlight, I fairly ambushed him while he slept, or thought so. Now, in the clear midmorning light of a sunny day, with the blinds raised, he had the upper hand. He raised a brow. My hands rose to the top button of my pajamas, working down to the last. The shirt slipped to the floor. I slid the bottoms over my hips; they rippled into a puddle about my feet.

Cool air flowed around my curves as Sergei took one step, then another, until he stood so close that I felt the heat through his clothes.

"Undress me," he said.

My fingers worked his buttons, one by one, slipping off his shirt, which fell to the floor, joining mine. Next, my fingers traced his bare shoulders, not quite symmetrical, down his slender torso to his bottoms, pushing them down and away. He drew me to him, full skin, his bristly chest against my breasts, his hand pulling my waist hard to his. We kissed deeply.

"Get on the bed."

I sat on edge. He motioned for me to move back, then lay a hand on my leg to halt me, and a finger on my chest.

"Lie back."

I did so. The cool, soft comforter rose around me like foam as his hands splayed my legs and cruised down the inside of my thighs. His warm breath and the flicker of his velvety tongue on my clit made me jump. Gripping the comforter, I gasped when his tongue entered me, already wet, his lavish attention maybe more than I could handle. He teased, his fluttering tongue spreading inside, the flutter threatening an orgasm, when he eased on top of me, kissed me with a mouth that smelled and tasted like me, then penetrated without further games. I cried out, half-crying, half-laughing because I figured the neighbor's bedroom lay beneath ours, if they were even home. Sergei kissed me again, working himself in and out of me, watching me whenever I opened my eyes. He took control this time, but did not take over, responding to every sound and movement I made, shifting his weight, kissing my exposed neck, and when he rose over me, then sent himself straight down, a great jade wave rose over me, reeling me back towards the rocks, and as he dove into me again and the wave broke, but I did not drown. I did not choke or crack my head. White, foamy spray broke all around me, thrown high in the air, fluttering down, dissipating like snowflakes resigned to a brief but beautiful life. The wave receded and left me lying in peace, panting, floating yet sinking. Sergei gripped me in the throes of his orgasm, pooling us into an eddy, waves to ripples to glass.

He breathed hard with the full weight of him on me, my legs wrapped around his waist, arms draped over his back like willow branches over water. I chuckled, "What will I tell them at work?"

"Mm, I leave that up to you," he mumbled into my neck. Eventually he rose to the surface, softened, and with a kiss on my ear, rolled off.

I wiggled onto my side and looked at him, "I have to go to work."

"Will you come back?"

"You want me to?"

"Yes."

"You sure?" I smiled.

"Yes."

"Then you have to say please."

He closed his eyes and said, "Pashzowsta."

Chapter 16

We planned my return for eight pm on Tuesday night, Christmas Eve. I had a half-day at work and fetch duty for Gam that day, and Sergei had a late-afternoon engagement. I worried about his lack of Christmas Day plans but he assured me that December twenty-fifth wasn't a big day for him. He told me that the Russian Orthodox church considered January seventh like Christmas, celebrating through January nineteenth, the Epiphany. And for some, New Year's Eve was an even bigger deal. He promised to tell me all about it later as he wrapped his old blue scarf around my neck and gave me a kiss. Honestly, I felt relieved that he declined my invitation to Christmas at home since our 'situation' had developed.

I set off, walking on air through virgin snow across campus to my car, in wonder at the vast emptiness of college on vacation. The rolling verdant tracts of warmer seasons lay beneath a blanket of snow, unmarred by footprints, like another world. Did the steppe look like this in winter?

I hugged myself, shuddering with the chill and the thrill of recent events. And re-gathering doubts. The things he wouldn't discuss, but then, what of it? Who didn't have secrets and skeletons? He did once say I wouldn't believe what was in his closet. I just prayed not monsters.

The snow on my windshield brushed off easy with a few swipes of my arm, New England-girl style. Jitters crested and broke all the way home and followed me around the apartment while I quickie-showered, threw on clothes, then threw food in my lunch bag, humming Hark, the Herald Angels Sing with a buzz that even a pot of coffee couldn't top. I ran late anyway and finally jumped back into my car.

But the drive to work mellowed me out with the shh-shh of cars driving through slush. Eventually, I pulled into my parking spot with only minutes to spare. Mrs. Garabedian had some sort of business women's luncheon every Monday, and I didn't want to hold her up. Grabbing the car handle, I stopped. I shut off my phone last night and hadn't checked it since. Shoot. I pulled the phone from my pocketbook. The glassy black surface felt like a depth I didn't wish to plumb, but, too bad; back to life. I held my breath and powered up the phone. Whew! No new calls or texts. I shoved the phone into my pocket and got out. Now I really was late.

Juggling my stuff, I hop-jogged to the rear entry of the shop, my fingertip hovering over the security keypad when I felt a vibration in my pocket. "Damn it!" I yelled. I hated the phone, but better to handle things outside than at work. With a wrench in my stomach, I pulled out the phone, looked, and hustled to answer, "Hey, Mitz, how are you?"

"Hell, girl, I caught ya! You busy? I figure it's lunchtime at home and all my kiddos are napping, can you believe it? Played all morning outside and wore themselves out, so I figured I'd sneak in a call." Mitzi's voice crackled through the phone, through the poor connection over two thousand miles of mountains and valleys and plains. Already late and running later, I paced by the door, but chances to chat with Mitzi waned over the years, like finding a buffalo nickel in a jar of change.

"Nah, I'm not busy, it's uh, lunch break." I eyed the window, "So, how are the girls? You get the gifts I sent them?" White, condensed breath curled around my hand as Mitzi answered, "Yeah, I got them, thanks! Under the tree. The girls are so excited for Christmas...,"

We chatted for a few minutes; Mitzi about her kids and ranch life, and I of what little local gossip I knew, most of which I culled from Jordan. He knew everyone. Apparently.

My steps shortened, and as our conversation closed, I felt a squeeze to mention Sergei. However, Mitzi never warmed to Lasaln, at all, and to this day I felt she doubted whether my picker worked.

A child cried in the background, so we tendered quick goodbyes and happy holidays while I punched the keypad and fell through the door and race-shuffled through the oil-scented pressroom to my office. I dumped my stuff in the old chair, then I and my tingling cheeks apologized profusely, "Mrs. Garabedian, I'm sooo sorry I'm late. I know you have that luncheon, and...,"

"That? Oh, that's cancelled this week. Too close to the holidays. Anyway, looks like a pretty light day." We reviewed the easy pre-holiday workload while I tried not to wipe my brow too often. She looked at me, "Did you run through the snow to work this morning, Calliope?"

"No, no." Yes. "I just got caught up in something and I don't like to be late."

"Uh huh."

We wrapped things up, and Mrs. Garabedian excused herself to go upbraid Mr. Garadedian for some obscure trespass. Settled into my desk, I felt grateful that she didn't seem to mind my tardiness. Maybe there was Merlot in her Thermos. Wouldn't be her first time this time of year, I grinned to myself. Anyway, it used to be that Laslan would pick me up an hour late, no apology, no excuses. However, if I were late, a rare thing, I'd get the lecture;, 'You knew it was important that... blah blah blah.' Just an excuse for a guilt trip, another part of the yo-yo game. I shook my head to shake him off. Not now.

I logged into my email and read the latest message three times, taking notes the fourth time because I couldn't concentrate. I typed a slipshod reply, and read the next message without focus. I sighed and leaned back, staring out the window, hoping to clear my head, watching puffy white clouds ride the wind in a pure cerulean sky. But it didn't clear my head. Instead of the clear blue skies of elation, a blustery day developed, dark clouds of doubt bloomed and blossomed. Again, was I just lonely and horny, and he, too? Was Sergei a safe and easy target for me, and I a lucky score for him?

A shaft of sunlight painted a stripe on my desk. The warm streak felt good on my hand, still cold from holding the phone to my ear outside. I felt that no, there was more to Sergei and me. With the whir of a press in the background, I rolled back the reel on my memories. Sergei caught my attention from day one with his clunky movement and curt attitude. And then, how he tapped his marker on the lectern and the curl of a smile about his lips whenever a student asked something interesting. The swollen fingers, the cane, the black fedora, a stranger in a strange land, yet still lived on his own, teaching a full curriculum incredibly far from home. The curious way he thumped his cane for emphasis, the pause before writing on the board from Russian to English, or English to Russian. And beneath the gruff demeanor; a good listener, a kind person, an attentive lover. I wondered what he saw in me.

"Hey, knock knock, space-child!"

I looked over; Javin slipped into the office, looking at me cockeyed, "So, who's the lucky guy?"

"Lucky guy?" I pretended to shuffle paperwork, casting glimpses at him. Javin sat in the cracked office chair and crossed his arms. He squinted, then said, "Okay, first, you were late, which happens how often? Second, you had a thousand yard stare I never seen on you, and I never heard you talk about a man in your life, so, Javin's logic." He shrugged and added, "Or lucky woman. That's cool."

I grinned, "All right, you know me too well. I met a guy."

Javin laughed, flashing that million-dollar smile, "No, Callie, I don't know you too well. I barely know anything about you, really, but tell me," he leaned forward and lowered his voice, "who is the lucky dude?"

I straightened the pile of paperwork for real, looked at Javin, then said, "I really don't know."

I yearned to tell everyone that I met someone, but half the staff either left early or hadn't come in at all in order to finish holiday shopping or start drinking. But no matter, really. Questions usually followed announcements: Who was he? How'd we meet? What's he like? I had yet to see how this worked out before telling anyone, besides Javin.

So, one of the most exciting days of my life so far, and I had to keep my mouth shut.

Towards the end of the day, the shop settled into stillness while Javin washed up his press early. I wandered to the window and raised the blinds. Barely-there snowflakes drifted like errant June bugs, reminding me of the tingle along my skin from Sergei's gentle touch. I missed him already. I still didn't have his number and had to wait until Christmas Eve to see him again, but just as well. I think we both needed space and time. Even now, I felt alternating excitement and apprehension. I smirked, watching a murder of crows in the oak ridge beyond, fluffing their feathers against the flurries. Was Sergei a lemon, or a loon? Or neither? And what was I?

***

Tuesday, nine am. No chores or errands on Christmas Eve, so I flopped about all morning in old pajamas, with a cup of coffee practically glued to my hand. Not even yoga, for the holiday lazies had me in their grip. Besides, I had too much on my mind that even meditative practice wouldn't conquer.

I curled up on the couch and stared at the matryoshka's smooth profile, summoning her secrets. I sipped the hot coffee, never taking my eyes off her, but she remained solid. I didn't really have to go to work later, but it would kill a couple hours before picking up Gam, and help keep me from stewing about my eight pm date. Gam spent Christmas Eve and Christmas with us since Grandpa died. That was the one holiday she never spent without us because deep down, I think she thought she'd go to hell if she skipped Christmas with family. I didn't have the heart to tell her that hell probably didn't want her.

Anyway, hell-bound Gam would use my bedroom tonight, then after dinner, I'd lie and pretend to go to my apartment. But of course, I'd make a beeline to Sergei's and start my night. Or end it.

The darkening living room suggested late morning as the sun ascended the sky, above and beyond the living room's east window. The coffee line in my cup receded. Time to shower, pack an overnight bag, and call Mom, reassuring her that I'd pick up Gam late afternoon.

Driving to work with my bag, coat, and Sergei's blue scarf in the back seat, I thought over how pretty damn good Sergei was in bed. Had he far more women than I assumed, or so few that his opportunity with a lonely young woman lit a fire? Maybe just the eiderdown savoir-faire of a much older man? Although I didn't want to, I let myself recall times with Laslan while I stared out my salt-rimy windshield. Laslan had a Greek sculpture body. Tall and handsome. Athletically prone in the sack, but I realized, even then, it was all about him. Proving something. More concerned with my rating of his performance than my pleasure.

The car behind me honked. Oops, green light. Was a yellow light more appropriate right about now?

At work, I tied up loose ends, tidied the foyer, and dusted windowsills. The domestic touch reminded me of that heated phone call I interrupted that Sunday afternoon. Only domestic disputes sounded like that. I shuddered; I should know, having been through my share of rows but not remembering what about. I looked out the front window several times at the spattering of cars in the parking lot. Maybe Sergei had a row with a significant other, and found me a handy vehicle for revenge? Somehow that didn't quite fit, but didn't feel entirely wrong, either.

Wrapping up the final touches of the non-essential work, I locked up the shop early and left. Over the turnpike and through the streets to grandmother's house I go.

Chapter 17

Gam and I drove in silence after I picked her up. As I slowed for a red light in the pale wash of winter's twilight, I asked, "So, Gam, read A Christmas Carol recently?" I looked at her from the corner of my eye.

"Huh? No. Why?" She frowned and tinkered with her mittens.

"Just wondering. Holiday epiphanies and all, you know?"

She remained quiet until we started through the green light. "So, Calliope Winter Winthrop, who ya' seein'?"

"Who am I seeing?" I checked my rearview, "Why do you ask?"

"You walked differently when you picked me up. Taller. He makes you happy, whoever he is." She looked out the passenger window so all I could see was her gray cotton ball head. She muttered to the glass, "Make sure you keep a hold of him."

Make sure I keep him? I hardly knew him, and yet he did make me happy in spite of myself. Nonetheless, I still wanted to smack granny. She didn't know the story, and I didn't want to tell her.

My tires crunched over the gravel driveway. I parked and shut off the engine. We sat. Gam picked at her pilled purple mittens, then shook her head, "As old as I am, you'd think I know it all. I don't."

"Do you really want to?"

She raised her head abruptly, blinking, "Don't be saucy, young lady." Then, she sighed, "And don't settle, ever. Stay single if you have to." She started sniffling. Digging in the center console, I found a tissue and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, and dropped the dirty tissue on the floor of my car. "Is he wise?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Is he nice to you?"

"So far," I replied.

Gam looked me in the eye and said, "Well, do the best you can."

"Wasn't Grandpa kind and wise?"

"He was kinda... oh, it's the holidays, for Chirst's sake. Let's go inside and see what your mother burned for dinner."

Nutmeg and cinnamon and clove met us when I opened the door for Gam; Mom and Dad quickly followed in welcoming her diminutive majesty. I carried Gam's overnight bag, Dad took her coat, and Mom handled her pocketbook.

"Far end of the couch, Margaret. Put my pocketbook on the far end of the couch!" Gam barked. "A thief could walk right in that door and swipe it off the hook." Usually, she thought Jordan was a thief when he came home, with his longish dark hair and leather jacket. He'd kidnap her in a bear hug, exclaiming, "Gam, you look like a million years!" Her reply remained cleverly muffled in his shoulder. Jordan figured out years ago how to utilize railroading techniques with Gam. Mom should have taken notes rather than taking everything to heart, but at least Gam generally bit her tongue during Christmas.

Mom fussed over Gam and Gam fussed back while I escaped towards my room with Gam's overnight bag. Leaving the squawking behind, I gripped the railing and took one step, then stopped, as if checking for ghosts on the landing before proceeding. One slow step at a time with Gam's bag feeling heavier. The air--cool, quiet. I looked around the tiny hallway; the doors to both my and Jordan's room were shut. I preferred to go to Jordan's room, but he'd be home later and Gam always stayed in my room whenever she spent the night.

The old iron latch clicked, the hinges creaked. Ever feel like there's a haze in a room, but it's neither dust nor steam? A presence. Nonetheless, I plunked Gam's bag on the foot of the bed covered with the tattered lime quilt, then fluffed the hopelessly flat pillow. Next, I turned on the space heater and opened the yellowy gauze curtains to the bile-colored winter sunset. The cold air of my room seeped down my shirt collar and made me shiver. Bare lilac branches below my window scratched the siding. "Yeah, I know, friend. I miss warm weather, too." Even more, I missed loving my room like I used to. Spring had to return.

But not just yet. Instead, the jitters returned as I descended the stairs to join my quibbling family in the warmth of the brown, beat-up living room. However, Gam, Dad, and Mom sequestered around the wobbly kitchen table instead. The scent of coffee mingled with gingerbread and who cared if it was too late for coffee and too early for dessert? Call it high tea at Castle Winthrop. The flush in Dad's cheeks suggested the brandy he hid behind the can of nails in the upper left white cabinet in his shop. Mom looked younger in her pretty forest-green velvet party dress, adorned with my favorite piece of her jewelry, a rose bouquet brooch with petals of red enamel and stems of gold.

"Mom, tell us the story about your brooch."

"Oh, you've heard the story a million times," she waved it off, her cheeks flush, too.

"Tell me again, Mom. You know it's my favorite," I smiled. And a memory I never wanted her to forget. "Besides, let's hear it before Jordie comes home and ruins it with a fart joke."

Dad laughed. Yeah, definitely buzzed. Then he beamed at Mom, while Gam shook her head with a look of disgust. Okay, here it comes;

"Well, I was working the jewelry counter at Filene's," Mom stirred another spoonful of sugar into her coffee, "and this big bear of a man came huffing and puffing...,"

"I wasn't huffin' an' puffin'," Dad tried to frown.

"Don't interrupt, Paul. Anyway, he came to the counter and said, 'Lady, you gotta' help me!' 'Do you need an ambulance?' I asked him. He said, no, it was worse--tomorrow was his mother's birthday and he didn't have a gift for her. He was passing through, you know, he was a truck driver then and saw the store and stopped in and said, 'Ma'am, if you were a lady, what would you want?' So, we poked through a few items, chatting all the while, and finally settled on this pin," Mom touched a petal with her fingertip. 'This would be lovely,' I told him, so he bought it. A week later, he came back, same day, same time. I remembered him and asked him if he wished to return the pin. He said no, that he needed to return and ask me to dinner. I said yes, and on our first date, he presented me with a gift, and guess what it was?" She smiled and squeezed Dad's hand. I didn't know whether to laugh, choke, or weep, but this time I shut up, although Gam didn't. She pursed her lips, then asked, "So Paul, what did you give your mother for her birthday?"

Still holding Mom's hand and smiling at her, Dad shrugged, "I dunno."

A car skidded in the driveway, then the clump of boots in the doorway and the Prince of Dankness returned, ruddy-faced and smelling a touch toasty. "Friends had a bonfire, Ma," he said, kissing her, then paying homage to Gam. He hung his jacket on his chair and joined us for canned soup, all Mom could muster after Brandy and Sherry had joined us, too. And why should Mom have to bust her ass on Christmas Eve, anyway? I got up frequently to clear dishes or get water, avoiding the booze and sneaking peeks at the stove clock, feeling excited and uneasy, closing in on eight o'clock. I sort of hated to leave Mom's warm kitchen and the company of my family in their spirit of getting along. Nonetheless, at seven-forty, I excused myself and promised to return mid-morning on Christmas. Hugging Mom, she asked, "Leaving already?"

"Yeah, I don't like to drive late." Dad and Jordan argued over snow tires as I gave Gam a hug, too. She grabbed my arm, "You're not staying?"

"No, because you have my room, remember?"

"No? I thought I saw another overnight bag in your backseat. Eh," she waved her hand and sipped her sherry, "see you tomorrow, Hotstuff."

A flush crept up my neck. No one seemed to notice Gam's comment, except maybe Jordan, who made a bump with his tongue in his cheek as I walked by. I restrained the urge to slap the back of his head.

I took leave of my family amidst their buzz of Yuletide cheer. Coat zipped and pocketbook over my shoulder, key firm in hand, I bid goodbye one last time, then remembered that I wanted a gift for Sergei. I snuck to the tree, found Mom's gift to me, which was the same every year, and slid it under my jacket.

The smack of cold air past the door felt like a different world. I took a few steps, then peered around the old yew and into the driveway. Really, on Christmas Eve? Really. A breeze blew snow from the yew branches, stinging my cheek as I went to my car. I got in, locked it, and put the key in the ignition. I looked at the lit windows of my home. Maybe the car wouldn't start. But I wouldn't know what awaited me at Sergei's unless I went. Maybe I could tell my family that I changed my mind and would sleep on the couch instead of returning to my apartment. I could thereafter write Professor Marchenkov a note; "Sorry I didn't make it. Thanks for the fling." No. My apartment was empty. Sergei waited alone in his.

I turned the key. The car hummed to life.

Dad's haphazard light job twinkled on the juniper bushes until I saw them no more in the rearview mirror. Driving slowly on near-empty roads, I kept wondering if this was a wise idea. I could leave if things didn't feel right although they sure did the other morning. But then, what if...?

I parked in Sergei's spot and pulled out my overnight bag. What if he forgot? Oh, come on. One hand on the cold railing, one foot on the step, the alternating thoughts made me crazy and yearn for a drink. I stopped. Did Laslan suffer a chronic cycle of opposing thoughts? Is that why he drank more than he should? Fuck. He must have been at Jumpy's the night of the company party. How else would he have known about me drinking a vodka shot? And how did he get my number? I took another step. I'd been such a fool, and even now Laslan haunted me, but Sergei was a different man, an older man. Another step. But why was he so reluctant to talk sometimes? Step. The angry phone call. Step. I hardly knew him. Step. Initially he kept me away. Why?

By the time I stood at his door, the cold and my nerves had me shivering. I felt foolish, standing there with an overnight bag, yet I had to know which way this would go. Knocking hurt my knuckles and when the latch clicked, a wave of overwhelming doubt took over.

Until Sergei opened the door.

Chapter 18

Flowers. Flowers everywhere. Carnations and baby's breath, astromeralia and roses in jars and Solo cups along the counter, clustered on the table, even on the floor along the kitchen wall. Tea lights glowed in cups and bowls and saucers. Grassy scent of blossoms and lilac candles in the kitchen awash in amber glow.

I could only take one step, my mouth hanging open, until I whispered, "Beautiful." Sergei shut the door behind me, took my bag to the bedroom, then hung my coat and pocketbook.

"Good. You wear your coat this time," he said as he unwound his own old blue scarf from around my neck and I pried off my shoes, my eyes tearing up.

"I hope you like flowers, yes? Not allergic?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Yes, of course," I squeaked, "it's just...," a tear escaped down my cheek.

"Oh dear, I did not wish to make you cry. I get tissues, unless you use them all last time," he smiled.

"Don't worry about it." I pulled a tattered tissue from my pocket, "I'm sorry."

"For what? Using tissues?" He lay a gentle hand on my arm, "I am very happy you came. Again I think, maybe you change your mind."

"No," I tried my best to lie while I cleaned up, "it's just that...,"

"Yes?"

I shook my head. Not tonight, but he touched my cheek so lightly that I barely felt it, then he said, "Calliope, talk about him if you need. I will not be angry. I am not a child."

I nodded once more, still wiping my nose. I soon finished and he took my hand, "So, tell me."

I hiccuped, then giggled from nerves, "All these flowers. Laslan only bought me flowers twice. Once on our first date, a ten-dollar romance special from Market Basket, then," I held his hand tighter, but not too much, "then after, you know. He sent yellow roses and a shitty, corny I-can't-lose-you letter that made me puke." I laughed spitefully. "I tore up the letter and roses and buried them in the compost pile before my mother saw them."

"Your mother?"

"Yes, she'd ask about them, and you see, she thought Laslan was so fucking great." I shook my head, "I shouldn't talk like that on Christmas Eve."

"Say what you want. God knows your thoughts, anyway, and you should not have secrets. They eat your soul."

As I exhaled, I embraced him, melting onto him, but afraid to knock him over. I loosened up and leaned back, "You know, you're better than a visit from Santa."

"Eh, perhaps. Anyway, come, young lady." He took up my hand again and led me to an ersatz loveseat facing the patio window.

"So, you do have a couch," I grinned.

"No, I have kitchen chairs under a big white Plumeau. Now, sit. I have something for us."

I sat, then watched him amble around the table, upon which lay a floral embroidered cloth.

"Gorgeous tablecloth," I said. "From Russia?"

"Yes," he smiled, "my great aunt." He removed from the refrigerator a bottle with a gold foil neck and tangerine label and presented it for my inspection.

"Veuve Clicquot," I whispered.

"Yes. Now you don't have to visit French professor," he smiled, but his smile faded as he watched me. He must have seen a veil pass over my eyes this time and said, "Spit it out."

"Yeah. When I got hired at Prism Graphics years ago, I was thrilled. I only had a mish-mash of graphics courses and spotty business classes, and typing, so I figured they'd take a pass on me, but they didn't. I was so proud of myself, I said, 'Laslan, let's get champagne!' But you know what he said? 'Nah, beer's good enough. That job isn't that big a deal.'"

"And what job is a big deal for him?" Sergei asked.

"Oh, bigshot lawyer, like his dad. In fact, Laslan claimed he was gonna be bigger than his dad."

"And?"

"I have no idea. I don't think he ever got through college."

"Interesting. Well, you celebrate now. We celebrate." He leaned close and handed the bottle to me, "CeCe, every day you walk the earth is something to celebrate, understand?" I nodded as I held the cold bottle. Then he smiled, held up his hands and said, "As long as you can open."

"Hah, of course. I spent years working part-time for caterers. Opened plenty of champagne for other people." With a few twists of the wire and the cork, it popped out and the eager, stotting bubbles tickled my fingers as I poured champagne into teacups. Sergei slipped onto the seat next to me and I handed him a cup. "To fairy tales," I said.

"To real life. It needs champagne the most."

We sat back, sipping. I stretched my legs, crossing them at the ankles, taking it all in; the snow kissed treetops like a mountain range in the murky winter night and the jars of flowers and candles trailing onto the patio, flickering in the falling snow.

Sergei seemed as content to quietly admire the calm beauty as I was, even when my hand wandered to his. "Sergei, you have no idea how much this means to me."

"Is nothing," he squeezed my hand, "just flowers and cups and candles."

No. It's love. That's what I was afraid of, and that I would not spit out. I turned my head to look and waited until his eyes met mine, then I said, "You know, I did have doubts about coming back. I had so many thoughts flying around my head. A few about you, but mostly about me, about choices I've made." His eyes looked hurt, but he listened. I took a deep breath, "But when you opened the door, and I stepped in, you know what? I felt safe. I still do. Calm, peaceful."

He smiled, "No red flags?"

"No, unless you got an old Soviet one in the closet."

"Ah, no. Maybe home, certainly not here." He topped off our champagne as a male cardinal alighted the railing outside, disturbed and chased in the dark and leaving in a crimson streak just as soon. I set down my cup and nestled into Sergei, who put an arm around my shoulder. Eventually, I asked, "So, you don't have anyone special at home?"

"Pardon?"

"Children, friends? Lovers?"

He wiggled, "Mm, in Russia, a couple of friends, you might say."

"A couple?"

He took a deep breath, "Prostitutes, CeCe. May I call you CeCe? I never asked."

I sat up and looked at him, "Don't change the subject. Prostitutes?"

"Yes, two. Like old friends anymore." He shrugged, "What can I say? I am what I am."

I stared, "Did you use condoms?"

"Yes, always. They insist, anyway."

"Whew, okay." Settling back in his arm, no strings, no broken hearts.

"Now, you. You said you use pill after Laslan. And before?"

"Condoms," I mumbled.

"Just condoms?"

"Laslan said no to anything else. Should have been my decision, I know, but he said he didn't trust me on anything else. I might become a wanton woman."

"Oh, please," he chuffed, "that makes no sense."

"I know, and that's what I put up with for almost three years. I didn't question it much because I thought maybe he wanted to get married eventually, but no, just a bunch of yo-yo games. Anyway," I looked up at him, "you have any kids?"

Sergei's eyes narrowed and he uttered a sharp 'no'.

Leave it alone. I turned my gaze back to the window and the mute snow. I didn't have any children either. Not anymore.

After a while, he kissed my head, "So, answer my question--may I call you CeCe?"

"Si si," I giggled, then said 'da' to clarify. "May I call you papa?"

"Nyet."

I giggled again, "We'll see." I lay a hand on his torso and smiled. I was having fun.

Mellow, warm, and hungry, I let Sergei pour me more champagne, then he excused himself to the kitchen to start a late dinner. Watching the bubbles rise and burst from the smooth sides of the cup, I asked, "Professor, are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to, you know." I gathered the comforter in my arms, took it to the bedroom and spread it over the bed. I then returned the kitchen chairs to their places. Sergei heated butter in a pan and uncovered a bowl of sliced onions, mushrooms and potatoes. I sat in my seat, and watched him slide half the contents of the bowl into the pan, stirring it with a wooden spoon. "I'd offer to help, but it looks like you've done everything."

"You sit and relax. Drink your champagne before it is warm."

"Do you want more?"

He shook his head and his hand, "No no, too much alcohol, not good for me."

So, I sat, sipping a cool champagne, toying with the tea lights among the embroidered flowers, inhaling the scent of frying butter and onions. I looked at all the flowers in the room and the bowl of cut vegetables. "So, how long did it take you to do all this decorating and slicing? And how did you get it all up here?"

"Delivery, grocery store, you know?" He flipped some potatoes. "All afternoon."

"Huh. I thought you had to go somewhere this afternoon."

He then turned down the stove and smiled at the sizzling pan, "I lied. I had nowhere to go, but I had something important to do." He transferred the cooked pan to the plate. "I apologize for lying," he looked quickly at me, then prepped the next pan. "Had to clean apartment, also."

"For me?"

"Yes. Oh, and I don't forget," he waved the spatula, then stirred batch two. "I have something for you."

Uh oh. At least I had something for him, too. I just wasn't sure what it looked like.

Batch two finished, Sergei served me the fresh, hot batch, and himself the cooler one. He brewed chamomile tea for himself and insisted that I enjoy the champagne, if I wished, and I did, enjoying the mellow warmth but not getting drunk. He told me about Svyatki, the Russian Orthodox celebrations from January 6th, their Christmas Eve until the Epiphany with caroling, costumes, parades and food.

"Sounds kind of heathen, those crazy costumes," I remarked.

"Well, what do you call your fat man down dirty chimney at midnight?"

I laughed, "Lunacy."

He growled, then resumed eating.

"And this, what we're eating now?"

"Regular meal. Tired of eating it as boy, but, far from home...,"

"Homesick?" I asked.

He didn't look at me, but shrugged, "For some things."

I let him eat without further interrogation, and he let me help clear the dishes. We left them to soak in the sink.

"Now, your gift," he announced, patting his hands dry with a towel, then heading towards the bedroom.

"I have something for you, too, in my bag," I waited for his return. He lay a box on the table, then I fetched my gift for him and laid it on the table, too.

We sat. Sergei splayed his hands on the table, "Now, who dare go first?"

"I'm afraid either way," I said, squeezing my soft-wrapped gift with 'To Calliope Love, Mom' written on the re-used silver paper.

"Hm, it does not look good," Sergei groaned. "Hand it over."

I bit my lip, gripped the package, then gave it up. "Okay, look, I actually forgot to get you a present, so I grabbed mine from under our tree. It's from my mother to me, same thing every year, and you're gonna need it."

Sergei grinned, and even allowed himself a chuckle. Squeezing the package, he looked at me cockeyed, "Well, here goes." He lay the package on the table, the bits of tape on the paper releasing easily. He held up a knit scarf of deep greens, brown and black. "Beautiful," he exclaimed, "but it is yours. I have my scarf and tonight, you are my gift." He slid the scarf towards me.

I slid the scarf back, "No. Your old blue scarf is now mine. You need this one."

He sat back and crossed his arms, squinting. "I see. I accept your gift only if you accept mine. Open." His hand gestured to the box.

I slowly pulled the white ribbon, unleashing the bow, watching the knot collapse and give up its hold. I lifted the lid, folded back the tissue paper and stopped. I felt afraid to touch it. I looked at Sergei. He said, "It won't bite. In fact, I think you will like how it feels."

My knuckles rode the creamy folds of the white silk before my fingers slipped through the slender shoulder straps. Lifting it high, then out of the box, the floor-length nightgown with the low-cut back flowed and fluttered as I held it to my shoulders, "For me, too?" I whispered.

"Only for you," he nodded. "I invite you to stay with me, you should have something to wear besides old man's pajamas."

"But I like your pajamas."

"Ach, no, I don't want to go to bed with myself. I want a woman in my bed."

I twirled around the table, the gown sailing with me. I reached Sergei and kissed his cheek, "Almost forgot to thank you."

"Thank me by putting it on."

"Help me." I held out my hand and led him to the bedroom, switched on the lamp and laid the gown on the bed. I turned to him, "Help me." He touched the top button of my shirt, "I can't--these little buttons."

I raised my hands to my first button. "Put your hand on mine." He did so, and his hand rode mine as they undid one button, then the next. His breath felt warm on my chest, and I asked, "If you can't undo my buttons, then however did you button up your shirt?"

"In my closet. You will see someday."

"You have a wife hidden in there along with that magic couch?" I grinned. He paused our progress, looked at me and smiled, "Tools that help."

"Ah."

We undid the final button. Sergei brushed the shirt off of my shoulders. I helped him unhook my bra as a smile glanced over his lips and his hands glided over my hips. I stepped out of my jeans, ditched my socks, and my prince presented the snowy gown that flowed down my arms, over my head, over my curves like a waterfall.

"Exquisite," he whispered, turning me like a snow fairy. I finished the spin close to him, close enough to tell what was going on. "You want me to thank you again?" I asked, my lips by his ear.

He slid his hands down and around my waist, over my hips, close to the sacred spot, then stopped. "No. Not yet." He led me back to the kitchen and pointed to the middle of the floor. "Stand here." He fiddled with his phone on the counter until the notes of a waltz joined the dancing candlelight. Delightful as it all was, I stepped back, "Oh, no no. I don't know how to dance, really."

He bowed, then extended his hand, "If you really wish to thank me, I request only this--dance with me. You cannot dance and I am poor dancer, so we make good pair. Come, I teach you."

I giggled, "Okay. Dancing with the Flakes."

"Pardon?"

"Oh, never mind." I smiled and took his hand. My other hand on his shoulder, his on my waist, he said, "Slow, follow me. Waltz is easy."

Indeed, it was. Step back and over, repeat with a curve, 'round and 'round. Sergei in slippers, I barefoot, the white gown flaring and closing about my legs like a lucky lily with many lives and flickering tea lights our audience. Our waltz aged into a slow, close dance, and finally, his hands came to rest on the small of my back, a touch that flowed and pooled in my knees.

"Thank you for my dream come true," he murmured into my hair.

I pressed into him, gripping him like a life preserver, "A dream? My pleasure." I closed my eyes, then asked, "But how in the world did you get this gown a few days before Christmas?"

He chuckled, "No. I bought the gown two months ago."

I opened my eyes, "Two months ago?"

He pulled back and looked at me, "Last summer, I visited relatives in Brooklyn. We made a day trip to Manhattan, where I see this beautiful nightgown." He held my face in his hands, "Then, I meet you. And I wonder. I tried not to think about you and thought about you even more. So, I decide, if I can't have you, I can have the gown."

I touched his face. He continued, "So, two months ago, I ask my nephew, Jimmy, not really nephew but almost, I asked him if the gown is still there, and it was." He smiled, "To waltz in a ballroom with a beautiful woman in white, a woman who wants me as I am, that was my dream."

And that was that. Enough of the romance stuff. I didn't just want him anymore; I had to have him. I took both of his hands, and walking backwards, pulled him into the bedroom, "Now, my dance."

He did not resist. Nor did he resist when I unbuttoned his shirt, and attacked his belt, kissing him and reminding myself to let the man breathe. My panties fell to the floor, then pulling a loose side of his shirt, I lay back on the bed. His hand glided up my leg, hiking the gown just high enough, then pulling his pants just low enough. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I thought, not one damn doubt, and after I proved that, I let the man breathe again.

Chapter 19

"Damn you," I whispered to the profile of the man by my side, truly asleep this time. Studying the set of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheek to his jaw again and again, my eyes etched his profile into my brain. I felt terrified yet elated, like a bowling ball sinking into the sea, surrendering to this feeling.

His eyes opened. He looked at me askance, "Who are you?" but the twinkle in his eye gave him away.

"Your conscience," I smiled, nestling to him.

"Mm, no, my conscience is not so beautiful."

"No? Well, then Merry Christmas, Mr. Grinch. Sure you don't want to go to my Mom's house today? You could meet my grandmother. That's always a treat."

He squinted, "You try to set me up with babushka?"

"Babushka? Hell no! More like Baba Yaga. I wouldn't fix up my worst enemy with Gam. Or, well... no."

Sergei sighed and turned to face me. He watched my eyes and stroked my face. "Go, see your family. Take that scarf with you just today. Then," he kissed my forehead, "you have excuse to come back."

I closed my eyes. Threads like rubber nerves grew out of me, weaving throughout his apartment and painful to stretch. I'd snap back as soon as I could.

***

Mom's house looked and felt the same at eleven am as it had at seven-thirty pm last night, only now Gam sat on the couch, eating her favorite Christmas snack, Hostess Donut Bites and sherry.

I slipped Sergei's re-wrapped scarf from beneath my coat and slipped it back under the tree, "Hey Gam, Merry Christmas." My face pinched as I regarded her snack, "That's some lethal combo."

"This crap's sure to give me diabetes. Shoulda' fed it to some people I knew. They would of shoved off sooner," she cackled, then cackled again when a drunk George Bailey crashed his car into a tree on TV. She continued eating and drinking the poisons.

"So, how was my room?" I asked, hanging up my coat and pocketbook.

"How was his?" She laughed and slapped her leg. "Eh, your room, I could get used to it. Quiet. Far from everyone."

On TV, Bailey stumbled down the road. "Stupid George, it's your wife who bailed out you and your town. Twice. Outta be called 'She's a Wonderful Wife', not 'It's a Wonderful Life'. What a crock."

Yep, Home for the holidays.

I tiptoed away from Gam and into the kitchen to help Mom, "Hey, Merry Christmas. How can I help?"

"Ah, there you are. Merry Christmas, sweetheart," she kissed my cheek. "Feeling okay? You look tired."

"I'm fine, Mom. Just all that Christmas stress getting to me," I smirked.

"Oh, I know. Isn't it awful? Check the potatoes in the pot," she said as she slid a pie into the oven.

I poked the half-soft potatoes in the boiling water. "Not quite done yet. What kind of pie did you make?"

"Apple."

I shook my head, "You work too hard on Christmas, but your pies are the best."

"Lemon zest. Can't make a fruit pie without it. Your grandpa taught me that," she said, rinsing a bowl. "Too bad you never met him."

I looked at Mom in her worn apron and white dress. I let it be. She set the oven timer and I helped her hang the apron. From the foot of the stairs, I called Jordan, then to Dad in his shop, and we convened by the tree tucked into the shallow bay window. Gam snored softly by the half bottle of sherry while we passed out the presents. When I placed the re-re-wrapped scarf in the shiny paper on my lap, Jordan mumbled, "Oh look, it's back." "Shut up," I replied under my breath.

Smoothed out paper and unravelling ribbons grew in a meager pile by Mom's chair. She insisted on smoothing and saving all salvageable gift wrap as we went along. Jordan actually thanked me for his books; The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The True Believer, and a volume of Robert Frost. Despite his hard-crack asshole attitude, he really did seem to appreciate the gift of books. Radical tomes and poetry did the trick. Mom inhaled the scent of her jasmine candle over and over, and Dad held aloft his six-pack of Coors Light, "Hey, all a man needs!" He said the same thing every year, but then, I got him the same thing every year.

I thanked everyone for my gifts, although I couldn't look my mother in the eye when I thanked her for the scarf, and as they continued with a few more presents, I lapsed into staring through the branches of the Christmas tree. I felt Jordan watching me. He frowned and cocked his head; I waved low and vague, as if to say, 'It's all good.' I hadn't told Gam much about Sergei, and after the first sherry last night, she probably forgot our conversation anyway.

Dinner ripened in the oven, and I mashed the mushy potatoes while Mom moved her pile of reclaimed paper to her bedroom. Dad took the roast and the pie out of the oven and I heard Jordan say, "All right, Gam, chow time."

"Did I miss presents?" she asked.

"Yes," Jordan replied.

"Good."

"Just as well," Jordan said as he helped Gam to the table. "We didn't get you anything anyway." He pulled out her seat, and helped push her to the table once she settled.

Everyone seated and plates heaped, Mom bowed her head and we followed, "Dear Lord, thank you for Christmas dinner and our chance to be together on this special day. Amen." I repeated 'amen' in a whisper, then we ate. I thought about Sergei, how he shouldn't be alone today even if it wasn't a big holiday to him, but at least George had texted back with greetings, reassuring me that his plans were solid. I smiled between bites; at least I didn't have to worry about him, too. I did, however, catch Jordan eyeing me again, but I didn't react this time.

After dinner, the older folks settled by the tree and reminisced over more sherry and fruitcake while the pie set. After Jordan and I finished the dishes, he tugged my elbow, "Come on, Callie, join me outside for a minute."

I followed Jordan into the sleeping flower garden, tucked beneath a light winter's blanket. The woody stems of wildflowers bowed under the snow, their undisturbed stems and leaves a shelter for hibernating bugs and bees. 'Leave the leaves', Mom chanted every fall, and Dad was fine with that.

The brisk air felt like a slap as I hugged myself against the cold. Jordan leaned against the house and lit a bowl.

"Jordan. Really? It's Christmas."

"Yes... it... is." He took a deep hit. A breeze swept away the skunky smell. "I just wanna chat with my favorite sister, you know?"

"Right."

Jordan coughed, then inhaled a chaser of fresh air. "Is that shithead back?" he rasped.

"Great, what, did Mom tell you I ran off last Sunday?"

"Yep. Mom said work called and you ran out like a fox on fire, but I never heard of you losing your shit over a phone call, so who else? He always tied you in knots, that fucktard."

I blew an angel's spray of condensed breath into the air, "Yeah, I dunno. I thought he was much more than he turned out to be," I shrugged. "Fool me once, I guess, and I don't know how he got my new phone number. I've been really careful with it. Anyway, he called while I was here and I panicked, because I was afraid he'd show up and I really, really didn't want to see him." A shudder ran through me.

Jordan took another hit, gently knocked the bowl against the siding, then looked at me, "I hate to say it, but I think you got unfinished business with that jerk. Why the fuck else would he call you after not gettin' any from you this long?"

I glared at Jordan, then dug my toe into the dirt, "I don't know." We were quiet for a moment, then I asked, "So, why exactly did you never like him?"

Brushing back his dark bangs, he said, "Because you never seemed happy with him. Whenever you guys were here, he was always hyper and fawning all over Mom and shit, but behind his back you always looked scared or disgusted and I don't think you even realized it. Then he'd turn around, and you'd put on a smile that wasn't you, like a different person. He played you. He played just about everyone and you never noticed." He waved the bowl in the air to cool it, then put it in his pocket, "Well, eventually you must have."

I kept digging at the hole with my toe, "Sounds about right. Well, I'm going in. It's freezing out here."

"All right, go ahead. I'm gonna have another smoke," he pulled a pack of American Spirit from his pocket and grinned, "a legal one."

"Weed's legal, too."

"Not my shit, remember? Street weed's still illegal. Under the table, unregulated, untaxed. Government hates that."

"I guess." I opened the back door, then stopped, "Hey, is weed good for arthritis?"

Jordan laughed, "Weed's good for anything, but Gam wouldn't touch it."

"Gam? Uh, yeah, no. I guess not." I returned inside where Gam held court yelling nursing home horror stories above A Christmas Story rerunning on TV. I smirked, listening to her castigating people who'd passed. Her tongue could send the merciless Queen of Hearts running for the hills.

After sitting a while, longing for Sergei's touch in lieu of pointless gossip, I excused myself to re-primp Gam's chambers. A chill went through my clothes as I went upstairs and opened the door to my room. I turned up the space heater, re-fluffed the flat pillow, then sat on the edge of the bed.

When I was seventeen, Dad helped me re-paint the room from pink to lavender, teaching me everything from puttying nail holes to roller brushing with long, graceful strokes. A hands-on man, Dad seemed happiest when productive and it was the longest time I ever spent with him one-on-one. Then, of course, years later, Laslan had to comment on how typical of a woman to want a purple room, and offered to cut down the overgrown lilac bush beneath my window because it looked trashy. I wanted to shove him out that window, but I told myself to tolerate others' opinions, because that's how relationships worked, right? But I loved that color then, and I loved it now, reminding me of May's lilac blossoms peeking over the sill, waving hello as their sweet scent wafted past the curtains.

But not now. Winter's freeze rendered the old crooked window even harder to open, and why would I? Behind the darkening panes, the ghostly waif from Wuthering Heights, or deep in the gloom, Laslan, may be waiting, watching. Not reasonable on Christmas night, but still, the living haunt us as well as the dead.

So, I kept the window shut against the cold, waiting for the warmth of spring to turn my room back into that sanctuary I once loved, and would again.

I shut the door on the way out to keep the heat and the memories in. I missed my wise man, but shouldn't leave too early, and just as well. After two years alone to get my head straight, I shouldn't rush into another unusual relationship.

Downstairs, the family hadn't moved and continued bickering over whatever. I sat for a few minutes, then as the windows grew darker, I piped up, "All right, everyone. I'm gonna head back before it gets too dark."

Mom looked at me, "So soon? Well, the black ice, too." Kisses and hugs and Merry Christmases, then to the kitchen for a leftovers plate; roast beef, lumpy potatoes, and a slice of fruitcake, covered with foil. Jordan got off his phone and off the couch, helped me into my coat and held open the door.

"Take Gam back tomorrow?" I asked.

"Sure, and Cal," he lowered his voice, "I hope this guy's not too old."

"Why do you think I'm seeing someone old?"

"'Cause you packed a slice of fruitcake. No one eats that shit but old people."

"Uh huh, Merry Christmas, Jord."

"Christmas, Cal."

I almost launched my look-around routine before getting in my car, but fuck him. It's Christmas.

Chapter 20

"Mm, smells like a Christmas tree in here," I said, stepping into Sergei's apartment.

"Yes. I attacked pine trees by parking lot, cut twigs, and made tree," he pointed to a large jar with pine sprays sticking out like prickly fingers.

"It's charming," I smiled, then kissed him and handed him the plate of leftovers. "Another gift?" he asked, peeking under the foil. "I think not, but I have something for you."

"Oh no," I said, doffing my boots and hanging my coat. I unwrapped Mom's new scarf from around my neck and lay it around his. He smiled, then reached into the cupboard and retrieved a small paper packet, "Your lemon seeds."

I accepted and turned the packet over in my fingers. "You remembered."

"Yes."

"You're sweet."

"Eh. Are you hungry?"

"No, we had dinner."

"Good, you eat again anyway." He returned to the stove and stirred a pot. "I'm glad you returned."

"I missed you."

"Two bowls and two cups, please."

I smirked. Sweet and tart was more accurate. I took out the bowls and cups.

"Kutia," he said. "Porridge with raisins and honey. Holiday tradition."

"Sounds like breakfast."

He frowned, "No, for lunch or dinner. And to drink tonight--sbiten, made of honey and water and spices."

"Perfect," I smiled. "I guess my jar of honey came in handy. What about lemon?"

"If you like."

I carried the bowls of kutia to the table while he poured the sbiten. "A favorite at home," he continued, "long before tea arrived in Russia, oh, about 1700s."

I sat, and before he did, he handed me the lighter for the cluster of tea lights on the table, still decorated with cups of flowers.

"Tonight, not as exciting as last night," he pulled his chair to the table.

I sat back, "You know what? I'm fine with that. I think a quiet night would be good for us."

"Us?" he blinked.

I leaned in and laid a hand on his, "Yes. Let's just be two people enjoying dinner together, nothing more."

He took my hand, started to say something, but nodded instead.

We ate with tales of Sergei's boyhood pranks on grandparents and with my high school graduation trip to Niagara Falls with Mitzi, who had giggled, "In case we never get married and go on our honeymoons." It was about the farthest I'd ever left home and my only really big trip. Sergei's interest in the few adventures I'd ever had made me realize that my life had riches, too. As for Sergei, I think my rapt attention and attentive ear lifted his spirit as he narrated with a twinkle that never left his eyes.

After dinner, we washed and dried the dishes together, and he suggested an early bedtime. "Again I apologize, not exciting night," he placed his hands on my arms, "if you understand."

I hung the dishcloth over the oven handle and looked at him, "Okay, as long as you lend me a pair of your old man's pajamas, I won't subject you to my will."

"Deal."

We gave each other a tame kiss, and started getting ready for bed. While I brushed my teeth and changed in the bathroom, I looked at the white nightgown hanging on the door. Likely he hand-washed it and hung it to dry. Beautiful, but I felt closer to him in his worn raiment. He changed and brushed after me, and when he slipped into bed and took me in his arms, indeed it felt like slipping into old pajamas. He left the lamp on while we held and looked at each other. "I have tomorrow off," I said, tracing the stubble on his jaw.

"Good, you cook breakfast."

"Sure. I'll heat Mom's leftovers."

"No," he shook his head, "you do that, you go now, but leave my pajamas. You run home naked through the snow."

I laughed, picturing myself as Lady Godiva on foot, cruising across campus in nude gear. Then my smile faded, "But seriously, are we seeing each other?"

"I see you."

"No, I mean, do you want to see me on a regular basis?"

For the first time this evening, he looked sad, "Yes, very much, but I...,"

"Leave in June, I know." The cork popped and the sighs I had bottled up all day escaped. Sergei watched me while I gathered my thoughts, and one question bubbled to the surface; what did I want out of this? I rolled from his arms onto my back, imploring the murky space of the dim white ceiling for a magic answer. Sergei waited and wove his fingers through my hair and gently combed it and it came to me; I wanted as much of this as I could get. I looked at him and said, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." I rolled back into his arms.

If not-exciting nights were always like this, hey, give me plenty. After Sergei turned off the lamp, we talked, then drifted on a cloud to a still and solid sleep, dark and dreamless, like death with respiration and a heartbeat that left us lying on the shores of morning. Sergei lay beside me, warm and soft, until the wanderlust in his hands roamed my curves, and then he wasn't so soft anymore. We made love without words but with the ease of familiarity. I abandoned thought to the shore and flowed with his movements like a softly lapping sea kissing the sand, with the sun on our backs and our faces. When we finished, I felt pleasantly spent like a day at the beach, head empty and happy and best of all, I think that Sergei felt that way, too.

The morning of the day after Christmas truly felt like a holiday. After we made love, we lay for a long time until Sergei felt too stiff and I too hungry. He soaked in a warm tub while I brewed coffee and chopped the leftovers for hash in a pan. While the hash warmed, I stole away to Sergei's bookshelf and perused the titles, some English, some Russian, the largest of which piqued my interest. Using my rudimentary grasp of the Russian alphabet, I sounded out ka... ma... zoo... tra. The Kama Sutra? I giggled and peeked, but no pictures. Shit. At least now I knew what a visiting literature professor might read in his spare time.

Sergei dried and dressed and we ate. I showered while Sergei cleaned up the kitchen, and before I got dressed, I wrapped in a towel and checked my phone in the kitchen. George had texted, 'Should have taken your offer. Whew! Hangover! What a night ; )' I chuckled. Sergei glanced my way but didn't ask.

We decided to bundle up and walk in the woods, retracing our steps to where we misbehaved a month ago, and perhaps misbehave again. I wrapped my new scarf around his neck, and he his old scarf around mine, and we set out for the finishing touch on our post-holiday holiday.

The black lake lay beneath a thin layer of ice, except where deep currents from springs carved paths. No loon today; not even a duck, but plenty of self-righteous blue jays calling the alarm and joyful chickadees among naked winter boughs. We held each other on the shore of the lake, no awkward moments save for several giggling girls jogging a nearby trail, almost catching Sergei and me in a kiss.

The walk was long and slow and beautiful. We returned to Sergei's around three and agreed to see each other on Saturday. Although I had Friday off, too, it felt wise to take a day off from each other. We finally exchanged phone numbers and reluctantly said goodbye.

***

Driving from Sergei's, I felt warm and happy, the dark gray sky comforting to me, not threatening. However, I didn't feel like returning to my vacuous apartment yet, and I needed pots and dirt for my lemon seeds. I drove to Mom's. If she or Dad didn't have something I could use in their piles of junk, then it didn't exist.

I stepped into the house, stopped, and listened. Mom must be napping. I went into the shop. Sure enough, lights on, knocking about.

"Hey, Dad," I announced, peeking around the door.

"Hey, Cal, how ya' doin'?" he replied, rearranging old soup cans full of nails.

"Good. I need three little flower pots and dirt. Do you think Mom has any to spare?"

Dad looked at me funny, "You kiddin'? She's got a whole Home Depot back there."

True that. Mom wasn't exactly a hoarder, but any space out-of-sight, out-of-mind, became hopelessly stacked and packed with a slide show of hobby paraphernalia. Dad pushed open the rickety door to the potting room with a grunt, although he could have torn it off the hinges without a second thought. No wonder Laslan regarded him with a tint of fear although Dad barely gave him the time of day. I guess that was another reason Laslan never bullshitted Dad; he had no traction there.

Dad and I rustled through dirty mismatched old saucers and trowels and clacking, crusty clay pots until we unearthed the small pots.

"So, Cal, how's life treatin' you?"

I stopped. Dad rarely struck up conversation. "Uh, fine, why?"

"Mom's kinda' worried about you, I guess. She thinks you're working too hahd or too lonely or somethin'." He pulled apart a stack of mini pots and displayed them for my perusal.

I studied the tiny pots, chipping off caked dirt with my fingernail, "I know. She's always hinting that I should find a man and get married and do all the same things that she did."

He pulled out a few large pots, "Well, is that so bad, Callie? Meet a good fella, build a life together. It's not so bad."

"No, but I mean, at one time I thought it was a maybe. Just didn't pan out."

Dad huffed and puffed and reached up to a high shelf, then brought down a box, "Bonsai pots. Margaret was into it once, those little trees."

"Perfect," I smiled. "Lemme see."

"They take a lotta work, cultivating those little buggas'."

"I know, but I just need three." I turned several of the pots over in my hands, "Dad, do you remember that guy Laslan I used to date?"

He shrugged, "Vaguely. The one with the red cah?"

"Yeah, him. What did you think of him?"

The clink of ceramic and stoneware added high notes to the muffle of Dad's shuffling through cardboard boxes, "I dunno, Cal. Didn't think much of him 'cause he never talked about much but himself and couldn't turn a wrench to save his life." Dad looked at me, "His dad's some lawyer, right?"

"Yes."

Dad actually laughed, "I knew it! Like fatha', like son--useless."

I smiled and didn't disagree. My fingers getting cold, I settled on three almost-matching green pots. I asked, "So, Dad, who do you think is worse? A lawyer or a literature professor?" But by then, Dad had busied himself in the corner, rearranging neglected rakes and forgotten hoes and hadn't heard me.

Chapter 21

Life returned to normal after Christmas, except that now I smiled. The lemon seeds sprouted in their new homes, raising their tender green arms to the paltry winter sun in the west window of the living room. Sometimes I sat on the couch and gazed at them, feeling a touch of envy for their simple lives with no other instinct but to grow.

Sergei and I saw each other a few nights a week, after my shift, and parts of weekends except when he visited relatives in Brooklyn over Orthodox New Year, returning shortly before the spring semester. My work schedule provided a convenient excuse for him to not invite me, and we never spoke of a future together. But perhaps the set time limit on our relationship squeezed every last drop of appreciation from our time together. One thing on my mind, though; was I really falling in love with Sergei, or was the affair with distinct boundaries eliciting another emotion?

Ironically, I didn't have all that much time to ponder the question, and to what avail anyway? Que séra. I still balked at introducing Sergei to my family. But what about Gam? She wasn't going to be around forever and her reaction could tell me a lot.

So, on a Saturday mid-morning, Sergei and I left his apartment for mine. I baked a batch of cookies while he roamed my apartment, checking out my bookshelf and perusing the clutter taped to my refrigerator; a photo of Mitzi and I at the beach, notes, quotes, and a scanty, hand-written list of phone numbers for George should he need to call anyone on my behalf. Next, I put the cookies in the oven, brewed a tea for Sergei, then showered. I dressed while the cookies cooled, then, emerging from my room, I saw Sergei sitting still, his eyes fixed on the sketch of the ancient apple tree, hanging on the wall by the table.

"I see why you favor me," he said slowly. "You have others?"

"Other old lovers?" I smiled, buttoning my cuffs.

"No, child, other drawings."

"Sure do, in my portfolio. But, old man," I leaned over and kissed the side of his head, "another time. Let me wrap the cookies and we can go." We gathered cookies and coats, and while heading out to my car, George was just coming home. He smiled and waved. Sergei tipped his hat as I slipped into the car.

"You have a nice place," Sergei said, buckling up.

"Yeah, I like it."

"Hard to get good apartment in Petersburg unless...," He stopped, then fiddled with his hat.

"Unless what?" I threw the car into reverse.

"Unless you know the right people," he spoke to the passenger window.

"I thought Russia was communist, or socialist, or whatever. Everyone equal, everyone gets the same thing."

Sergei laughed, "On paper, yes, often only on paper. New Russia not unlike old. Power and money in the hands of few. Old story."

"Yeah, old story." I shifted the car into first and rolled up and around the driveway to the road, thinking of the curved driveway at Laslan's father's oh-so-great Mission home in the hoity-toity part of town. His father kept the house as part of the divorce settlement with Laslan's mother, now heading up some prestigious hospital in Boston.

I pulled onto the road and we drove for a while. The last light near Gam's turned green. I gripped the wheel, "You ready?"

"Are you?"

"No," I accelerated through the light, "but this will be an adventure we'll never forget, no matter what."

Sergei patted my arm, "Don't worry, my pet, I handle this just fine."

Minutes later, I pulled into the visitors lot, shut off the car, and looked at Sergei, "Thank you for coming with me. It means a lot. I'm gonna warn you though, she can be real crusty. You never know what she's gonna say."

His gray-blue eyes locked on mine, "No one knows what anyone will say. Besides, can she hurt me with words? Beat me with walker? No matter. I beat her back," he patted his cane.

"Well, then, we're ready." We got out of the car which I locked, but Sergei pointed to the cookies on the back seat. I brushed a piece of lint off of his shoulder and straightened the tie which he taught me to knot. 'Your father never taught you?' he had asked. 'My father? Last time he wore a tie was at his wedding. The last time will be at his funeral.' 'In that case, you best learn how to knot a tie.' Too much white breath in the air. I moved on to straightening his straight collar when he lay his hand on mine, "CeCe. We are ready, really."

"Okay," I sighed, then grabbed the cookies and relocked the car door. Over the jitters and through the doors, to bitter ol' Gam's we go.

Sergei seemed to make quite a stir walking through the home. The cane and manner of dress suggested a possible new resident, although his face not quite so old.

I peeked around Gams door; she sat rocking on the edge of her bed. "Grandma? Gam?" I called her, then walked in and touched her shoulder. "Gam?" She flinched and looked, "Calliope, you're gonna give me a heart attack." She pulled on my arm for me to sit down next to her, "And I'll thank ya' for it, but it doesn't matter anyway. Some day soon I'll be on the biggest trip of my life but won't need to pack a damned thing."

I kissed her wrinkly, soft cheek. "Sorry I'm late, but I brought something," I grinned.

Gam looked at the foil package in my hands, "Stale cookies?"

"Very funny. Baked fresh this morning. And no, I brought something else."

"Sherry?"

"No, Gam." I leaned closer, "I brought my gentleman friend."

"You did not! There are no gentlemen anymore. I see how you young people dress," she frowned and waved in disgust.

"Yes, I did bring him," I glanced over my shoulder. Sergei still waited by the door. "You wanna meet him?"

"Of course I do. Wait any longer and I'll be dead."

I rolled my eyes and smirked at Sergei, waving him over. At least Gam seemed in good spirits. For now.

I heard the thump of his cane, and as he came into Gam's view, her eyes bugged, "Oh, for Christ's sake, him? He's robbing the cradle!" Then, she cackled and slapped my knee, "And you're robbing the grave!"

Gritting my teeth beneath my smile, I watched Sergei's eyes, which sparkled as he thumped over to Gam. With a curl on his lips, he bowed, "How do you do, ma'am? My name, Sergeyev Alexandrovich Marchenkov. Pleasure to meet you."

"Well, he has manners and dresses well. Maybe you made a good choice this time." She waved her hand to an empty chair, "Mr. March-and-cough, have a seat."

"Thank you." Sergei sat in the chair near the bed, removed his hat, and leaned his cane on his leg.

"Are you sure you don't live here? Ya' look like the fellow who steals cookies from the dining room, only you have teeth," Gam said, ribbing me. "Calliope, I warned you about him, remember. That horny old fotze."

Sergei cocked his head and smirked, "Vielleicht treffen wir heute."

Gam's eyes lit up, "Hah, nein, er ist tot. That's dead to you, Calliope. Anyway, what's with the cane, spring chicken?"

"Bad hip. Arthritis. I'm afraid I look older than...,"

"Eh, everyone here looks old. At least you're honest."

Sergei leaned back, squinting, "Would you know if I wasn't?"

Uh oh.

Gam squinted back, then sniffed. Caught in the middle of the stare-down, I gripped the mattress and glared at Sergei. Then, Gam laughed, "He's a tart one, ain't he? Come on, let's get coffee and eat those cookies."

Sergei rose, tilted his head, and offered Gam his arm. She frowned but took his arm anyway, launching into gossip before their third step and forging a fast friendship. I couldn't have wanted anything more.

***

Late January. Sergei and I fell into a pattern of seeing each other Friday evening through Sunday morning, as well as a Tuesday or Wednesday night. Between his work schedule and mine, our free time felt tight, and it hurt not arriving at his apartment until eight-thirty pm, then rising and leaving early because he had class. But, we made the best of it; lemonade from lemons. Sometimes I'd run him a bath, trickling, for he wouldn't soak in still water, and massage his hands while we exchanged highlights of our day and the warm water eased his joints.

Some nights we made love, some nights, just a cup of chamomile and conversation. I'm not sure which I liked better. Some nights I wore the white nightgown, some nights, his old pajamas. Honestly, I don't know what he liked better. I think he liked me in his pajamas, but wouldn't admit it.

The biceps of Winter flexed and curtailed our strolls outdoors, so we switched to the campus art gallery. Visiting a student show, Sergei must have caught my sullen expression, "You are quiet, CeCe."

Studying the muddy still lifes of vases, skulls, and random art studio chattel, I half-smiled, "I wish I could have studied art, but always so many bills to pay. We just didn't have thousands to spend on college, and I could barely cover my community college courses. And my nest egg? Still paper thin at my age."

"And your parents? They don't help?"

I smiled, "Oh, that's a good one. I love 'em to death but they barely keep their own heads above water, since forever. Kids even used to tease me, you know? Being the so-called poor kid in a town that's probably never ever known true poverty. It's a Sanford and Son thing, all that. I mean, we were never really poverty-stricken, but always barely had enough."

Sergei took my elbow and we moved to the next Still Life with Mud, "Everyone has particular life for a particular reason," he said.

"Huh. You really believe that?" I asked.

He shrugged, "What else can I?"

I searched the painting for two particular things, but did not find them. "No tonal range," I said. "No darkest dark, no brightest light. Makes for a dull painting."

"Makes for a dull life," he added.

I looked at Sergei and smiled, "Yes. Professor, tell me, if I were a flighty art student, would you have taken me?"

"Not in one million years. Or two. Maybe three. Come, my bird with a broken wing. I buy you coffee."

"Finally." Arm-in-arm, we left the gallery. I did not care who might see us, and apparently, neither did he. We strolled out together into the bright, cold day.

If I had ever been an art student, I might never have met him.

Chapter 22

January's isolating, insulating shell cracked with February's Hibernian tap. I apologize for the purple prose, but Winter is long and never leaves easy.

On a Saturday morning, mid-February, I roused Sergei and told him to bundle up. He stretched and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, then looked at the window. The wind turned the bare branches into a thousand whips. "Outside today? Ah, well, es gibt kein schlechtes Wetter, nur ungeignete Kleidung."

Pulling on my leggings and a pair of jeans, I said, "Huh? Sorry, but Gam's attempts to teach me German didn't get far, unfortunately. Folly of youth, I guess."

"Then you learn something now. I said, 'There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.'"

I laughed, "No shit! New Englanders live by that. We don't need a saying for it. Anyway, I didn't know you spoke German until we went to Gam's."

"Well, I speak enough to get in trouble and not enough to get out," he grunted and slid off the bed.

As I buttoned my shirt, I said, "Gam speaks it okay. Learned some from her father, and I think she taught it as a schoolteacher."

"Yes, she told me while you were using restroom."

"What else did she tell you?"

Sergei approached and laid his fingertip on my lips and kissed it, "Confidential matters." I watched him shuffle to the bathroom, then heard the bathtub faucet squeak, followed by the rush and thunder of water hitting the empty tub. Gam telling secrets to a near-stranger? Perhaps she recognized something in his eyes.

***

Rain whipped my wrist as I exchanged cash for hot cocoas at the Dunkin drive-through. Sergei held one cup in his gloved hands while I cleared the cupholder, then rolled up the window before the wind shifted. As I drove onto the barren road, Sergei shook his head, "First your grandmother, then drive in this storm. What are you trying to do to me?"

"Hey, shadows and highlights. At least you got a cocoa out of it, so just wait and see." I looked at him briefly, smiling. The windshield wipers beat themselves to death while gusts of wind smacked the car side to side. "Just another twenty minute drive through hell, and you'll see the most awesome sight in the world. Well, in my world, anyway." I took a tentative sip of cocoa while keeping the car on the road with one hand on the wheel.

"Uh, you should drive with one hand?" He kept watching the steering wheel.

I put my cocoa down and resumed ten and two on the wheel. "Mitzi and I used to drive in storms. We'd drive in hurricanes, snowstorms. We didn't care. Hell, we used to ditch school and swim in the ocean in April."

"Polar Bear Club." He finally looked straight out the window.

"Yeah, a private one." My gaze focused deep into the wind and rain, "Some of my best memories."

Quiet for the rest of the trip, we arrived. I parked on a side-street close to the boulevard, for this time of year, no one cared where you parked and I didn't want to subject Sergei to a long walk. We took an extra minute to warm up with the cocoas, then I grabbed a wool blanket from the back seat, and we headed out.

Sergei kept an iron grip on my arm as we crossed the bend in the wet coastal road to the rocky cove. Mammoth waves thundered and broke on the granite promontories so nonchalant of the entire Atlantic Ocean beating them. I could hardly get Sergei's attention long enough to coax him onto the blanket that I laid on a boulder. When he finally sat, I leaned toward him and shouted above the pounding waves, "There's a hidden bit of beach way down there, between those boulders, that was me and Mitzi's private beach." I pointed to the spoonful of sand visible for a second before the next juggernaut's punch.

Sergei nodded, never taking his eyes off the titan swells destroying themselves against the rocks, then receding into jade pools that only storms could coax from the Prussian blue sea.

I smiled and let Sergei watch without further interruption, marveling at the boyish wonder in his eyes as he cheered and feared the drama of wind and sea with oohs, ahs, and ne nadas! My cove probably hadn't changed in a million years, and wouldn't for another million. Sergei and Mitzi and I would live for but a nanosecond on its timeline, but it was my nanosecond. In four months, Sergei would leave. Would I drown in sorrow or rise up to the surface and breathe? Either way, the constant of the ocean's existence gave me comfort, and I wanted some comfort with Sergei, so I took off my knit cap, wrapped my scarf around my head and neck, then reached for Sergei's gloved hand. He looked at me quizzically, a drop of water at the tip of his nose, which I dabbed, then pulled off his glove. I took his hand and nested our clasp in the knit cap. He smiled, then turned back to the waves.

"I come here every winter during a storm. The color of the ocean is amazing, and no traffic," I yelled.

"Yes," he yelled back. "This would be the perfect place...," He did not finish his sentence.

"Perfect for what?"

He seemed to stiffen, then shook his head, blinking, "Oh, nothing, just thinking." I stifled a sigh, probably stumbling on a secret I'd never know. I shut up and simply sat closer, laying my other hand on his arm and squinting against the lashing, salty spray.

Beyond the devastating surf, a single loon rode the swells, then dove. "Our friend followed us," Sergei said, smiling and nudging me but that veiled, sad look in his eyes made his stab at levity feel insincere. We sat silently for a few more minutes, then Sergei looked at me and said, "Calliope, I... I am sorry."

I waited, the wind stinging my eyes, then asked, "For what?"

"I... I must go. I know you love this place, but it is cold and wet."

I watched his eyes. The waves raged and broke beyond them. "It's okay, I understand." I stood and helped my lover with his glove and cane. I could accept that he held something back from me, because I'd always have the ocean, and the ocean held back nothing.

Sergei rubbed his hands together while the car putt-putted a mile north up the coastal route to the Sandpiper Restaurant, a simple breakfast-all-day nook established years ago. The Sandpiper's mascot, a fifty-something man named Mr. Chuck with few teeth and fewer marbles greeted us, "Hello! I see you're takin' your grandpa ta' lunch. That's sweetaya." He smiled a cavernous, weather-beaten grin. Sergei's eyes darkened but his mouth stayed shut.

Peeling off my coat, I said, "Oh, he's my dad, Mr. Chuck." I winked at Sergei.

"Ah, my bad, miss. Don't have ma' glasses," Mr. Chuck nodded to Sergei, "Nice daht'a you got, sir." He slipped paper placemats and utensils rolled in napkins before us. "Now whats can I get ya' to drink? We have...,"

"Two coffees, black," Sergei cut in, hanging his wool coat on the chair.

"Ayuh, right away." Mr. Chuck left. I wasn't sure if Mr. Chuck was his real name, but that's what everyone called him. At least I always abstained from asking 'What's up, Chuck?'. Couldn't help but giggle, though, from the rare bit of dated humor I'd learned from my father.

Sergei sat and futzed with his gloves, "Hah, grandfather. He is not much younger than I. Do I really look that old?"

"Only when you're grumpy. Must be the fedora, which you can take off now."

"Yes, of course. I am surprised it did not blow away." He placed the damp hat on the neighboring seat and indeed, he looked younger bare-headed, his close cropped hair still showing a fair amount of blonde among the gray.

I sat back and crossed my arms, "Not having second thoughts about our age difference, are you?"

"Eighth or ninth thoughts, at this point."

"Well, even if you were my grandpa and not my dad, I'd still think you're sexy," I grinned.

Sergei cleared his throat loudly and said, "Ah, spasseeba," as Mr. Chuck, wide-eyed, carefully placed our coffees on the table. I almost snorted, but also said thank you. We put in our orders and Mr. Chuck returned to the kitchen, maybe a little confused. Sergei growled and shook his head as two ladies with scarves wrapped to their cheeks barely got the door shut against a gust of wind. With red-noses and laughter, they struck up conversation with Mr. Chuck, ordered coffee and stale donuts and didn't seem to have a care in the world. I smiled at the familiar scene, but the smile soon dissipated.

Sergei must have noticed my quicksilver change. He set down his coffee, "Where are you, CeCe?"

"Huh? Oh, here."

He shook his head.

"Yeah, I know, but never mind. Not now."

Sergei nodded once and briefly closed his eyes.

Mr. Chuck arrived with our breakfast. Sergei continued watching me while I went through the motions of thanking Mr. Chuck and unrolling the utensils. My lower eyelids felt like they peeled from my eyes as I smiled weakly and poked at my plate. Sergei still didn't eat, so I said, "I never brought Laslan here."

"No?"

"And I never took him to that rock."

"Good or bad?" Sergei asked.

My fork hung in the air, a wobbly bit of egg hanging off, "Good, but I fucking hate it that he still haunts everything, you know? Like, I'm grateful I shared my favorite places with you and never with him, but even then, that reminds me of him." I shoved the egg in my mouth and chewed like a cow.

"CeCe, why did you not bring Laslan here?"

I chewed and thought for a moment, "I don't know. Instinct?"

"Huh." He watched me another moment, then ate.

I always loved the beach, yet suddenly it tangled more thoughts and feelings than I could comb out over eggs and toast. My eyes teared up with scrambled eggs in my mouth, scrambled memories of Mitzi and Laslan in my mind. And to top it off, Sergei's departure not so far off.

Dashed to pieces?

Sergei eyed Mr. Chuck as he flirted with the giggling ladies. "My daughter. Hah."

"Oh, I don't think he meant to offend you," I said, discreetly dabbing my eyes.

"No, but he has no idea," Sergei mumbled, resetting the paper napkin on his lap.

No. We don't know what anyone thinks. We don't know what the future brings. But we can consider letting the past go and be in the moment. I stopped eating and gazed at the gray ribbons of rain decorating the window pane. I sipped my coffee, smiled, and said, "Did I ever tell you about the time one summer when...,"

***

After lunch at the Sandpiper, I swept Sergei to my apartment for his second visit; a change of scenery for him and a chance to show my portfolio. We hung our damp coats in the bathroom, then I heated water in my new kettle and turned up the heat on the thermostat. Sergei circled the living room to stretch while I excavated my portfolio from the bookshelf.

Setting the portfolio binding-down on the kitchen table, I let it fall over with the signature smack Sergei used with his briefcase in lecture. He laughed and reported to the kitchen, "Horosho, you learn something in class."

"Da."

"You know, briefcase in Russian sounds like portfolio."

"Stalya," I pointed to his chair, "Pay attention." I unzipped the stiff vinyl folder for him, then turned to brewing tea. He opened it, and browsed the pages of fallen mossy trunks and decayed limbs.

"So, you show your work?"

"No. People always say, 'Ug, why don't you draw something pretty, like flowers.'"

"What people?"

"Mom and Dad-people."

I heard him sigh. "Go further. Galleries," he countered, studying the dead pine since removed from a neighbor's yard.

"Nah, it's such a hustle to get into a gallery." I set the tea on the table, then sat, "If they don't think it'll sell, they won't bother."

"Coffee shops?" He asked over a copse of birches.

"Hm, haven't approached any, yet. So, you like them? Whaddya' think?" I watched his studious eyes.

"Like them? Yes and no. Ugly and beautiful."

"Take me to Russia."

He traced the linework on a maple tree, "I cannot take you to Russia. Ah, here, the cross hatch is nice in your shading."

I remained quiet until he came to the last sketch--my mother's apple tree in bloom. He closed the portfolio and looked at me. I looked back at him, and eventually I asked him, "Which one do you want to take home?"

He leaned back, then pointed to the twisted crabapple hanging on the wall, "That one."

"That's my favorite. You know that."

"Yes, I know. I take your favorite because you don't show artwork. I make you do something uncomfortable. You need that."

"Perhaps." I stared at him, tapping my fingertip on my teacup. "You can have it, but not until June. Break my heart and take my tree to Russia, but not me."

Sergei raised a brow, "Guilt? You must try harder, but it is not best tactic. It does not suit you well."

I bit my lip. "No, and I don't want to be that kind of person."

Sergei leaned forward and stroked my hair, "Good. I like you the way you are." Then, he looked over my shoulder into the living room. "You have a blanket?"

"A blanket? Sure."

He nodded, "Put it on the floor. Candles?"

"Of course."

"Wifi password, please."

I looked at him funny, gave him the password, then fetched the blanket off my bed. He fiddled on his phone while I spread the blanket on the living room floor and lit candles.

"Now," he called to me, "that cream of sun, for outside. What do you call it?"

"Suntan lotion?" I shook my head; what was this loon up to? I searched beneath the bathroom sink and found a two-year expired bottle of Banana Boat. When I emerged from the bathroom, the sound of surf emanated from Sergei's phone. He stood and took my elbows in his hands, "Calliope, I can't take you to Russia, but if we fool ourselves, I can take you to the beach."

"In February?"

"In February."

I lay my wrists over his shoulders, "Do I have to take off my clothes?"

"Top only."

I took his hand and led him to our beach blanket. I took off my shirt and bra, then lay on my stomach. Then, with some effort, he sat next to me and plopped a dollop of cold, greasy lotion between my shoulder blades.

"Good Lord," Sergei grumbled, "how old is this?"

I chuckled and closed my eyes, "Who knows."

He pressed my back with the heels of his hands, moving upwards and outwards. "Mm, that feels good," I murmured. The scent of the lotion reached my nose, and with Sergei's warm touch and the sounds of the surf, it really almost felt like the beach. Feeling sleepy, I asked, "Sergei, do you truly like me?"

"I could ask the same of you," he replied, massaging my shoulders.

"You want someone beautiful and pliant," I grinned.

"And you want someone safe."

"Yes, but nice will do." I replied.

"I agree."

His fingertips flowed down either side of my spine until they pooled at the small of my back, then slipped beneath my waistband, "Take these off."

I rolled over and helped him undress me. Then, I unbuttoned his shirt and undressed him, all the while barely touching his skin, like the tickle of sand in the wind, and with the susurration of waves by candlelight, we made love in the twilight dunes of our own private beach.

Chapter 23

Blustery March, known as Mud Season in New England. And my birthday month. Throughout childhood, my birthday was always forgotten at school or elsewhere, lost between the burnout of the holidays and foot-dragging winter that followed and the lust for warm weather and T-shirts. Or at least sweatshirts. This year, though, I had Sergei to light up my days, the best gift.

Mom, nonetheless, remembered and celebrated my birthday every year with a lopsided chocolate cake and balloons, like I just turned five. I obliged her though, and longed to invite Sergei, but he and I had decided against it. Perhaps it was best, reminded of more recent birthdays past when Laslan hustled me away real quick for dinner at an uppity restaurant that I never chose, then held me ransom for a month of thank yous, turning a celebration of me into a celebration of him.

Oh well. I stepped into the house around three o'clock for extra celebration time, but really, to let Mom fuss. I dumped my stuff on the couch and joined her in the kitchen.

"Hi, Callie, happy birthday!" Mom said, rotating the frosted cake on the counter.

"Hey, Mom, thanks." I kissed her cheek.

"So, how's class going?"

"Well, I finished three months ago, but it was good." The candles on the cake came up short by one; I would turn twenty-seven this Monday, not twenty-six. While Mom rooted through a drawer, I snuck one more half-burnt candle onto the cake.

She extracted a pie server from the clutter and belatedly replied, "Oh, that's good. Meet anyone?"

Deep breath, Calliope. "No. I didn't." A pang hit my gut. I hated lying. Mom lapsed into silence while she rinsed the server under gurgling water, and I observed her quietly until my phone rang. Fucker. Better not be you. Jaws clenched, I went for my phone, so tired of fuckface infecting every aspect of my life, so... oh. I smiled as relief washed through me, "Hey Mitz!"

"Hey! Hello birthday girl, I figured you're doing the Sunday dinner thing at Mom's and work tomorrow, on your real birthday, right?" Mitzi said with clattering and banging in her background. "So, got a minute?"

"Sure, I always have a minute for you, but question is, do you have a minute for me?" I replied, phone glued to my ear as I double-stepped up the stairs to the privacy of my room.

"No, but when you get kids and a home and all that, you manipulate time and make it work anyway," Mitzi laughed, "Wayne's playin' rodeo with the--hey, watch the lamp! Oh, sorry, anyway...," I heard a rumble and whoosh over the phone and Mitzi continued, "okay, I'm out on the deck now, whew. Wayne's playing with the kids, so I've got a few to hear how my bestie's doing on her twenty-seventh birthday, right?

"Yeah," I smiled, "feels like a decade older." I almost sat at the foot of my bed, but moved to the middle.

"Aw, shoot, girlfriend, so what's up? Feelin' like an old maid already?"

Hmm, subtle way of asking something else. Should I or shouldn't I? I took a breath and said, "Compared to you, I must seem like it. So, how are the girls? I miss them though I never met them."

"They're doin' good. Joanna's crawling, and Courtney's four going on fifteen, and poor Skye's stuck in between." Mitzi paused, then asked, "So, Callie, really, what's up? You sound a little blue."

My hand trembled. A memory of Mitzi and me squishing our toes in the mud of New Castle's backwater shores flashed before me, one of many days spent sharing every secret and concern. She knew me too well. "Oh, I just, I met someone."

"Met someone? That's great! I think. So, you want to tell me about him? I mean, please tell me he's nice to you."

"Oh, Mitzi," I looked at the foot of my bed, "I know you never liked Laslan, and I should have listened to you. I'm sorry about that."

"Water under the bridge. As long as he's gone for good. Anyway, tell me about your new guy."

Sunset brewed in the rear dormer window that overlooked Mom's garden. Strolling to the window, gazing down, I said, "Yes, he's nice. Sometimes kind of grumpy. Always interesting. I met him in a Russian literature class."

"Oo, a sexy younger college guy, huh?"

"Um, a college guy, yes, but a little older."

"Okay, continuing ed, or grad student? Employed full-time?" Mitzi continued fishing.

"And full-time job, yes." I took a deep breath and dove, "He's the professor, and he's twice my age."

"Oh." Mitzi sounded like a deflating balloon. "Cal, is this relationship normal at all? I mean, I hate to harp on the past, but I don't want to see you hurt again."

"As normal as its gonna' get, considering he leaves in four months."

"Why?"

"He's a visiting professor from Russia, and his contract and visa expire in June." I chipped paint off the cracked sill, my smile turning down with the setting sun.

"I'm sorry, Cal, really. Do you love him?" she almost whispered.

Gathering my nerves to answer the most painful question, I whispered back, "Yes."

"What are you going to do? Go with him?"

"He won't take me."

"Why not?" Mitzi asked.

"He won't specify." I turned on my heel to leave the darkening sky behind me. "Anyway, what I'm going to do is this--enjoy every moment I can with him."

I heard a deep breath on Mitzi's part. Then she said, "I think that's the smartest thing you can do. That anyone can do."

"It's the only thing I can do."

But then, I wondered.

On a false note, we moved to lighter subjects; brief updates on family members, weather conditions, plans that would likely never come to pass. I heard the rumble of Mitzi's sliding glass door and figured time for goodbye. "Calliope, please, please take care of yourself, good care, or I'll hire Jordan to freak out on this guy."

"How would Jordan even know him? I haven't even told my family about him."

"Jordie knows everyone. He'll figure it out," she laughed.

I shrugged and straightened the quilt, "That's true."

"Calliope?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

We said bye and hung up. I lay the phone face down on the bed, then walked back to the window. The vestige of the setting sun burned the horizon, surrounded by dark and shadows.

Be careful.

But I smiled.

Darkest darks, brightest lights.

***

Monday afternoon at work. One leaning tower of cake labelled 'Happy Birthday to Me, love, Cal' in the breakroom. Jordan hadn't shown up to my party Sunday and Dad didn't need any leftovers, so I swiped the cake, leaving a couple pieces at my apartment for Gam and Sergei.

While I clacked away at my keyboard, Javin floated into my office. I looked up and stared at the mountain of cake on his plate, "Geez, Javin, you leave any for everyone else?"

"Nope, why? Cake ain't good for a body anyway." He shovelled cake into his mouth and mumbled, "Showzgootho." swallow "You make it?"

"Hell no! I'm a cookie girl. Mom baked it."

"She's a good cook. So, when was your birthday?" His fork hung in the air.

"Today. Twenty-seven."

"Good lord, Calliope, you don't look a day over twenty-six."

I laughed, "Nope, not yet." No one brightened my day like Javin. Except Sergei, but close.

"Doing anything special?" Javin asked, settling into the old chair.

"No, quiet party last night at Mom's, then sharing a slice with Sergei tomorrow night."

"Ah yes, from Russia, right? You told me that a month or two ago."

I smiled, "Yes, Russia."

"But he has to go back?"

"June." I sat back and looked at Javin. He leaned forward and slid his plate onto the desk, cake unfinished. "So, Cal, like what's really going on with you and this guy? You're still kind of cryptic about him."

I started swivelling side to side in my office chair, "Uh oh, you sound like my friend Mitzi."

"She's probably concerned about you. Do you love him?"

My lip started trembling and I looked to the ceiling to stave off the inevitable. Javin waved someone away from my door, then shut it.

I took a deep breath, "Of course. Of course I love him, but he can't stay and I can't go with him and he won't tell me why. It's like a steel door comes down when I broach the subject."

Javin sat back, quiet for a moment, then patted his chest and spread his arms wide, "What, you don't really want to leave all this, do you?"

I sniffed, "Well, no, I don't want to leave you guys, either, but," I shook my head, "I don't know."

He leaned in again, "Calliope, I'm gonna let you in on a secret. You know why Cherise and I ain't divorced yet?"

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, "Because you're a nice guy and a good father and you two are madly in love?"

"No, because I can fix the kitchen sink and she can't."

"Come again?"

"I make myself indispensable, so she keeps me around," he grinned, taking back his cake. "You gotta find a magic touch with him, you know?"

"I thought I was already using a magic touch with him. A lot. But I guess not enough. Anyway, I think I see what you mean."

"Mm hmm." Javin shovelled and chewed, than spoke again, "I used to think he was a lucky guy, and now I think he's a fool, lettin' you go."

I shrugged, "What can I do?"

"Tie him down and beat him. Make him stay, 'cause you know what? I've never seen you smile like you have been lately. Never."

***

Tuesday night. Javin's words from Monday followed me as I drove to Sergei's with my overnight bag and slice of aging cake. Make myself indispensable. But how? And would it really make a difference?

I parked, then carried my stuff to Sergei's door, left unlocked in anticipation of my arrival. Stepping inside, I called out, "Hey, it's me." I took off my shoes, set down the cake, then tiptoed into the bedroom.

Sergei sat hunched over his laptop by the desk lamp, slowly pecking away on the keyboard. He stopped long enough to give me a peck on the lips, "Hallo, solntse. Sorry, still working."

"Solntse?

He smiled while typing, "Sunshine."

"Oh, right." I peered out the window at the pitch black night, then lay a hand on his shoulder, "You have much more to type?"

"Sadly, yes." His fingers seemed to struggle over the keys. I left his side for the kitchen, and brought back a chair, which I set next to him. I sat down and said, "Slide it over," wiggling my fingers for the laptop. He looked at me with a frown, so I explained, "I can type about fifty or so words a minute. I correspond all the time at work, so you talk and I type." Fingers in position, I then added, "As long as it's in English."

Sergei seemed to sigh in relief, then spoke slowly, and every time he finished a sentence, I was finished, too. After about ten minutes and a brief review and corrections, we finished what might have taken him an hour. "Done," I smiled, and closed his laptop with a click. Then, I turned to him and took his hands in mine, "Tell me, professor, how are you feeling? Really."

He blinked, then finally spit it out, "Worse."

"What are you doing for it, the arthritis? You told me before, but tell me again."

"Corticosteroids, ibuprofen. Warm bath and physical therapy," he looked at me with wide eyes, as if about to apologize for something.

"Can you take something stronger?"

"Yes, but stronger medication has side effects, like, well, you know," he shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

"Oh," I gently massaged his hands, then said, "Sergei, listen, if you're in pain, please get what you need." I stopped massaging and looked at him, "I'm not here for just, well, you know. I'm here because," I took a deep breath, "because I love you. We can always find other ways to enjoy each other."

I couldn't decipher the look in his eyes; sadness, resentment, anger. I didn't care. I meant what I said, and that's that.

"Well," he said softly, "no matter. I survive as is. At this point, I would rather wait to review my treatment plan in Russia, with my doctors there."

"How often do you review?"

"Every six months."

My eyes bugged, "Every six months? That's like a part time job managing arthritis."

"Yes. Full-time, but what else can I do?"

"Get an assistant," I glanced at him while stroking his wrists. "How about marijuana?"

He chuckled, "Ocassionally. Easy to get on campus."

Apparently. I felt thankful he already had access. If I had to ask Jordan the favor of a little weed, he'd never let me forget it.

Letting go of Sergei's wrists, I placed my hands on his thighs, "You look tired. Why don't we turn in?"

"No. Not yet." He leaned back, "Turn around so I see your hair."

"My hair?"

"Da, volosy."

I turned as told, then heard him scootch his chair closer. I felt the gentle tug at my hair as he combed with his fingers, then I closed my eyes, lulled by the flow of foreign words which he did not translate. The gentle tug grew rhythmic.

"Mm, that feels nice. What are you doing?"

"Braid."

"Braid?"

"Yes, braid." He stopped. "Now, where is that ribbon."

"What ribbon?" I murmured.

"From your gift, A Christmas Carol."

Opening my eyes, I asked, "You saved that?"

"Of course, only I forget where."

"I've got a scrunchie in my pocket, hold on," I dug out the ruffled hairband and reached back to find his hand holding the braid, "You're only halfway done."

I felt Sergei's other fingertips brush my neck, smoothing back stray hairs. "Only halfway," he whispered, kissing my neck. "Put that scrunchie away. It doesn't matter."

I turned to face him. He let go of my braid, each strand unravelling like dark currents. I touched his chin, "What's wrong?"

"You are right. I'm tired. We go to bed."

We made quick work of evening toiletry and slipped under the covers. Like my half-braid so quickly undone, I felt Time slipping away. The idea that came to me as a seed now must germinate or perish, and up through the confusing spin of falling asleep, a long-forgotten quote from high school English class resurfaced;

Dull not device by coldness and delay.

Chapter 24

Dull not device by coldness and delay.

Othello, of course, when I looked up the quote online, out of the mouth of evil Iago, who I felt was more like Laslan than myself. But did not conjuring a plan on the sly require sneakiness, a minor manifestation of evil? I stared at my phone while the pile of accounts receivables sat inert. I couldn't concentrate. My plan turned my head into a hive of what-ifs and what-abouts; money, daycare, work schedule, reactions, eighteen years of responsibility, little to no travel. Not for a long time. And maybe doing this very much alone, since Mom seemed on a subtle decline. Dad either didn't notice her decline or kept his head in the sand.

A few salespeople poked their heads in the door and waved goodnight. I smiled and waved back, then returned to my thoughts. Looking at the bruised sky, I also had to ask myself; did I really love Sergei that much? Did that matter, anyway? It seemed I'd be here a long time without the love of my life and no one else either desirable or available on the horizon. Eventually I'd meet someone mediocre and have a mediocre life with him; no darks, no lights. Was a child that 'tie-down' Javin mentioned? Did he even mean that? I didn't want a child as a pawn or a meal ticket. Absolutely not. I didn't need it, and my character still meant something to me.

Loads of questions, few answers yet. One thing for sure, I had to consider this plan with utmost care, yet with exigency.

I was supposed to see Sergei on Thursday night, but told him that I had a pile of work and would probably just go home. He was fine with that as he needed to wrap up a few details before his spring break trip to Brooklyn again.

But instead of print shop work, I created a schedule for researching relevant topics daily and drew a couple of crazy pages filled with notes and bubbles. Double-circled items took priority. I figured I'd move back home to save money and as long as I remained employed, I'd have health insurance. Dad usually worked early morning to mid-afternoon, so between his work schedule and mine, someone could keep Mom company if need be. Maybe he could watch the baby, too, in the evenings? I still had scenarios that could render answers only if and when they played out.

Later, the cool emptiness of my apartment welcomed me home. I locked the kitchen door and brewed herbal tea while I changed into my pajamas. Tea brewed, I took it to the living room for a telepathic chat with Rosy, my smiling doll within a doll. She smiled and waited while I sipped, and finally I spoke, "Rosy, before I try this, can I ever be forgiven?"

She stared silently.

I took a deep breath before I started. "Laslan got me pregnant." I wrapped my hands around the warm cup. "When I missed my period, I prayed, 'God no.' We always used condoms, but, that one time...," my gaze went out of focus. "That one time. I was terrified to take a test, but I had to. Positive. Second test, same result." I looked up at the matryoshka again. "I had three options--keep the baby, which meant Laslan in my life forever, or give the baby up for adoption, which still meant carrying it to term and doing a lot of explaining. Or, abortion." I stared into my tea. "But none of that happened. Nope. One night, before I had even made any decision, I looked at my belly and said, 'I hate you. I absolutely hate you.'" I smiled wanly, then, "And you know what? Next morning I used the bathroom, and out of me slid this little bloody ball, so, bye-bye baby." Reticent Rosy was no help at all.

I hate you. I absolutely hate you. No, I hated Laslan, not the innocent life. The miscarriage was a coincidence, not a curse, but I still felt leery. Nonetheless, when I looked at Rosy again, the image of my hands at ten and two on my steering wheel came to me.

Take your wheel back and drive.

I got up and fished my birth control packet from my pocketbook, then threw it away.

Hello, baby.

***

Friday evening yielded another blessing in disguise; Sergei was tired, so we passed a quiet evening with the added advantage of helping him pack. I needed to be off birth control for at least a few weeks before trying to conceive, yet couldn't use other birth control without raising suspicion. I snuck in extra rummaging through drawers and his medicine cabinet when he wasn't looking. No unusual or unmentioned medications. Not even his closet, which I'd since seen with its collection of tools to help pull on shoes or button his shirt and such, as needed. No hidden wife or magic couch, but the tools only made me wish I could be of more help to him.

Saturday morning, I drove Sergei to the train station in Boston. While carrying his suitcase, my legs felt weak, like this was a trial run before the real deal in June. Anxiety followed me past the ticket booth and onto the platform. Cold air filled the quiet space between us as we watched down the tracks. Now I felt like a daughter sending off her father on a business trip. Sergei said nothing even when the dot-like headlight of the distant train grew larger and the horn blasts louder. The steel leviathan slowed and clanged and came to a stop.

As passengers crowded the platform, Sergei turned, touched my cheek, and said, "I love you, Calliope." He kissed me long and true, oblivious to the people hustling on and off the train, brushing by us like two-way fluids. "Say hi to Brooklyn for me," I whispered as he pulled away and took his suitcase. He boarded the train. I waved as the train clanged again and rolled away.

The hairy drive out of Boston didn't faze me. At least it was Saturday, and I had a visit with Gam to look forward to with the tingle of Sergei's kiss still on my lips. I stopped by a fancy grocery store and splurged on two of those little custard tarts with fruit on the top. The week old birthday cake slice had followed the birth control pills into the trash. I was too old for both, on several levels.

I gripped the pastry box to my chest as I travelled the familiar stinky beige halls of the old folks home. At Gam's room, I called her name loudly from the door to avoid startling her, then took her arm as we strolled more slowly than usual to the dining room, where I helped her with her chair. I fetched tea and unboxed the tarts, sliding one before her scrutinous eye. Gam's fork, gripped in her thinner, shakier hand, hovered over the tart, "You didn't make this," she mumbled.

"No. I wanted to celebrate, so I got something special."

"Celebrate what? My demise?" she chuckled.

"Oh, Gam, no. Why do you say such things? Let's just say we're celebrating Life and Love."

"Oh, pash!" She waved her fork, "Won't be long now. I'm just being honest, and speaking of, where's that older fella of yours?"

"Visiting relatives. Why, you miss him?"

Gam poked and peeled off the kiwi slice. "Can't eat that damn thing. Seeds get in my dentures. The strawberry, too."

"Give me them, then. I'll eat the kiwi and scrape the seeds off the strawberries."

We traded fruits she could and couldn't eat, and I de-seeded the hulled strawberries. Sipping lukewarm Lipton, Gam said, "He's a smart fellow, that guy of yours." She paused for a forkful of custard, smacking her lips, then continued, "Really cares for you, but he's hiding something. Ah, never mind. None of my business."

I didn't eat yet, just watched and listened, then asked, "How's the tart?"

"Tart? Good. Best you ever made." She struggled to crumble the little graham cracker crust. "You know, Calliope, you're the smartest of the bunch." She stopped and looked at me, "Don't sell yourself short."

I nodded and tipped the seedless strawberries onto her plate. She popped one into her mouth and chewed, "Mm mm. Your grandfather was a drunk."

"Grandpa? A drunk? Where'd that come from?"

"He dried up before you showed up, but before that, useless. I wanted to travel, buy some beach-front property before it went through the roof, but no. Wasted his time and money on booze. By the time he got his head out of his ass, we were old and stuck."

Stuck? I definitely felt dumbstruck at Gam's revelation. Definitely not how I remembered him. "So, why didn't you leave him before so much of your life went by?"

"And go where? With what? A divorced schoolteacher with a kid in tow back in the day didn't have much, and the gossip alone could ruin ya'." She stabbed the remaining strawberry and chomped it. She gazed across the dining room, and I felt rude staring at her, but I wouldn't let her off the hook yet. She continued, "You young people today, you do what you want, when you want, no discipline and that has consequences. On the other hand, you drive your own lives, have more options, don't have to stick with a situation you hate." She finished her tart and ate half of mine. I smiled, glad she got something off her chest, if it ever actually bothered her. She wiped her mouth, sipped tea, then said, "I've probably said this before, but at my age, you'd think I'd know everything." She shook her head, "Nope. One thing I still don't know is how to forgive."

I cocked my head, "Is it ever too late?"

"I dunno, but heed this, Calliope--harboring hate and resentments will make you a very, very old woman."

Hate and Resentments. Boy, I had more of them than I realized as I helped Gam back to her room. Teasing throughout grade school, embarrassing home, Mitzi leaving me, Laslan's subtle and not-so-subtle assaults, and now, Sergei leaving me, too. But I put them aside and instead tucked Gam into bed for a nap. She lay a hand on my arm, "Before you go, look in the drawer." She nodded to the small dresser by her bed. I opened the drawer.

"Take that stationary set, the purple one."

I smiled, "Lilac. You sure?"

"Sure as sunshine. I don't need it anymore. All my friends are dead," she chuckled weakly. Sitting next to her on the edge of the bed, I opened the box. Several envelopes seemed missing, but I didn't ask her about those last few friends. We chatted for a few more minutes, then I thanked her for the stationary, and with a kiss on the cheek, bid her goodbye.

Chapter 25

Sunday morning. Quiet hours before dinner at Mom's. With a steaming cup of coffee, I sat at the kitchen table, opened my laptop, and entered rheumatoid arthritis medications in the search bar. The side effects weren't pretty, especially the birth defects. Between Sergei's departure and his increasing discomfort, I had maybe two months to work my plan, but still needed caution. I had to double-check Sergei's apartment thoroughly, and now was the time. I had until Wednesday morning and I had his key.

Dull not device... Go now.

Crocuses of light watercolor purple riddled front yards and lacy yellow forsythia boughs tickled walls and sidewalks. Young green grass graced the bit of open space at the apartment complex, but I double-wrapped Sergei's scarf around my neck anyway. I looked around as I ascended the stairs. I'd never been to his place without him being there, and once inside, his apartment had the same echo as mine, only it felt warmer.

I went through the routine: doff shoes and scarf, hang pocket book. Then I stopped. The sneaky mission didn't sit well with me, but I needed answers and couldn't drill him again about his meds. Surveying the apartment from the door, I doubted he had a camera anywhere, yet still, in my mind's eye, how could I explain my presence? With honesty, if it came down to it. With dishonesty if I made up a bullshit story of checking up on the apartment. Third option: I could rationalize that since I felt Sergei held something back, it justified a search warrant of sorts. Based on suspicion. Really? Truly low. Something Laslan would do. And I would do it anyway, even though I hated it.

"Shit," I mumbled. Just do it.

Methodically, I started at the closest end of the kitchen, looking up and down the cupboards and drawers, looking for medications. Kitchen--clear. Bathroom--nothing he hadn't mentioned. Bedroom and closet next. Then, I thought he'd bring meds with him, but no, he used one of those daily pill boxes so he didn't accidentally overmedicate. I'd even helped him fill it occasionally.

I checked his desk, then ridiculously, checked behind the books in the bookshelf. While removing the Russian-language Kama Sutra, the bookmark caught my eye. The red ribbon. I laughed out loud, for he knew where it was all along, but probably felt too embarrassed to tell. I closed the book and pushed it back in place. If I wanted to know what he had bookmarked, maybe I'd find out with a little patience.

Next, the closet. Before I continued violating my lover's privacy and trust, I sat on the bed and gazed at that closet door. The unusual tools for everyday tasks. My snide comments about magic couches and hidden wives. My secret plan. The closet door didn't exactly say no to me, though. More like Pandora's box.

We are creatures of free will. I could finish my task, or leave now.

I stood, walked to the closet door, and opened it slowly, as if a fast creak would conjure something, or someone. The slow creak sounded worse.

Several tools were missing, likely packed and spending the week in Brooklyn. Several empty hangers, a bare spot on the floor where a pair of shoes may have sat. One small dresser. I opened the bottom drawer; a set of sheets, nothing underneath them. Second drawer; spare shirts in their wrappers, nothing more. A wave of relief washed through me; so far, so good. The top, and last, drawer glided open; extra socks, knick-knacks, loose change. I started closing the drawer when something familiar caught my eye. Purple paper peeking from beneath the socks. I maneuvered the paper out, disturbing the junk in the drawer as little as possible. A lilac envelope. A pit in my stomach hardened as I turned the envelope over. Sergei's address in Gam's handwriting, postmarked about a week after they met. I opened the envelope, unfolded the letter and read;

Nothing.

The letter was hand-written in German. I wouldn't even try to translate it, although she'd written briefly. I thought about taking a picture with my phone, but I'd compromised my character enough already. I carefully replaced the letter, shut the closet door, and left.

***

Sunday dinner at Mom's, again, and again, Jordan ducked out of family dinner. At this point, I missed our sibling-style secret humor, sharpening our wits with jabs and jousts and driving Dad crazy while Mom shook her head and wished we got along. Dinner tonight was beef stew, I think. We ate, I helped clean up, and while drying the dishes that Mom used on Sundays, I said, "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Is Dad the love of your life?"

Mom smiled, "Of course he is. Who wouldn't love that big old bear?"

I dried and stacked the bowls. "But really, Mom, is he?"

She looked at me, "I love him with all my heart. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just trying to figure some things out."

Mom shut off the faucet and lay a hand on my arm, "I know I harp on you about meeting someone, but it's not so much about having a partner. I don't want you to be lonely. I want you to be happy, and to share it with someone."

***

I want you to be happy.

I sat in my car for a few minutes, then drove to Sergei's. Who cared if anyone saw me there again. What would the property manager do? Kick him out for housing an unregistered tenant? I unlocked the door quietly, shed my shoes, then floated across the floor of his silent kitchen to the window. Outside, dark branches swayed like arms in animated conversation. I pictured Sergei sitting at a crowded kitchen table, enmeshed in boisterous arguments, clinking teacups or shot glasses beneath a warm overhead light. The desire to meet his family crept back, but still, he never suggested I join him, and I never asked.

I hung my coat over the back of a kitchen chair, then went to the bedroom and curled up beneath his side of the comforter. Enveloped in the dim light and listening to the whispering wind, I thought about times past and people missed. Let them go. Perhaps happiness was a skill, not a place or person or possession, and not a flick of Lady Luck's whip. Just let them go, and drift to sleep.

The bee-like hum of my phone woke me. Nine-sixteen pm on Sergei's clock. I clambered out of bed and made it to the kitchen, barely missing his call. I carried the phone back to bed, and a moment later, he called again.

"Hello?"

"Hallo, CeCe. I wake you?" His deep voice seemed hushed.

"Yes, but it's okay. I just drifted off for a while."

"Ah, good." He paused. "I miss you. I wanted to hear your voice."

I smiled, my head sinking into the pillow, "And I yours. You wanna hear me sing now?"

He chuckled, "Yes, certainly."

"Well, you have to come back for that. So, how was your trip? How's Brooklyn?"

"Good. Everyone is downstairs, talking and drinking. I plead exhaustion and go to bed. I have grown accustomed to quiet nights."

"Yeah, it's quiet as hell here."

"Mm, yes, Sunday night. You still at your parents'?"

"I'm at your place," I replied.

"My place?" His voice rose.

"Yes, I missed you, so I thought I'd sleep here, keep your bed warm and the silence company." I twisted a strand of hair about my finger while we talked some more, he in that hushed tone. I wondered if someone else was upstairs, and if so, why would he shield his conversation? Regardless, I love you flowed like two-way fluids, and we hung up.

***

Phone alarm, eight am, Monday morning. I rose, neatened Sergei's bed, and left. I had a schedule to keep and needed to return home anyway. Thankfully, no nagging thoughts infiltrated during the drive and instead, I settled into a bland peace all the way home, like an ebb tide. I parked in the usual spot in the back. No sign of George. I grinned. Maybe he spent the night elsewhere, too. I took a quick shower/dressed/ate, then sat again with coffee and my laptop to continue researching pregnancy. Of course I knew the basics and a few other details from Mitzi, but not the month-by-month developments and what to expect. Research quickly took me to eleven and the clack of the mailbox outside. I shut down the laptop, stretched, and went to get the mail.

As I approached the front door, I noticed a piece of paper wedged beneath. Probably the corner of a pizzeria or Chinese delivery menu. I opened the door and picked up a folded note. From George, perhaps? But he had my phone number and always texted if needed. I unfolded the note and read;

Hi.

A cold wave passed through me. I looked around, grabbed my mail, then slammed and locked the door. Deep breath, Calliope. Sit at the kitchen table. Did I have enough reason and proof to file a restraining order? Right. An assault three years ago, an unwelcome yet non-threatening phone call, and a note that said hi. Murky case, at best. Ask George to install a Ring on the doors? No, that would arouse suspicion and I didn't want to risk getting kicked out. When it was time for me to leave, I wanted to do so on good terms.

Feeling sick, I shoved the note in the far corner of the dresser drawer, then packed a change of clothes for tomorrow. I threw together food for work, double-checked the locks on the doors and windows, and left for work.

Good. Arrived at work early. I figured that would help buy me points for later, especially if I had to lay maternity leave on Mr. Garabedian some months from now. I settled into routine, organizing the day's paperwork and thankfully feeling calm about my plans, but not about that wildcard, Laslan. What did he want from me? I didn't owe him money, in fact, I owed him nothing and should have prosecuted when I had the chance. But, at this point, I just wanted to move on. Nothing was going to shake me up any more.

A stack of proofs ready for proofreading hung over the edge of my desk. I flipped the pile upside-down to start with the first proof when my cell phone hummed. I ignored it until it hummed again. Mom. I shook my head and let it go to voicemail. I'd catch up with her after I got through the proofs which needed to keep moving. Then, of course, my office phone rang, which I couldn't ignore;

"Prism Graphics, Calliope speaking. How may I help you?" I heard shuffling on the phone, but no one spoke. Bile rose. "Hello? Listen, I don't know what...,"

A sob over the phone shut me up. A gulping breath, "Calliope? It's Mom...,"

Gam had passed during her nap.

Chapter 26

Mid-morning on a Saturday, the end of April and a few weeks after Gam's departure. I sat on the edge of my bed at Mom's house, gazing at the west dormer window.

"Severyanin encouraged friends to try lilac ice cream," Sergei said, looking down at the lilac buds peeking over the sill. "But," he turned and looked at me, "I think natural state is perfect."

He leaned into his cane as he stepped and stopped at each foot of my room, grinning at the dolls on my shelf, and nodding at National Geographic pages taped to the wall. He smiled as he approached, "Yes, perfect room for young girl."

I leaned back on my arms and looked around, "Yeah, I tried to talk Gam into staying here not long before she passed."

"Ah, yes," he placed a hand on my cheek, "I'm sorry she is gone. I know she was special to you."

"And she took a shine to you," I watched his face, but all I got was a nod. "Anyway, she's got her seat on the eternal Leaf-Peeping tour after a long life."

"A happy one, ever?"

I spread my legs and pulled him closer, my fingertips reaching for the button at his collar, "With Gam, who knows? I think her philosophy was that life is a bowl of lemons, but she didn't know how to use them."

I glanced at Sergei's eyes, hazy. I think he had stopped listening as I undid the first button. He sighed and leaned his forehead against mine, "Weeks, Calliope. I start to think you want me no more."

Second button. "Uh uh. Things just got in the way," I kissed him. "I want you more than you know." I kissed him again as his breathing grew harder. The remaining buttons gave way and I slipped his shirttails and undershirt from his waistband. The backs of my fingernails trailed up along his warm, slender torso. He gasped and nearly fell over, but I caught him at his belt buckle and helped him with that, too.

"Here, CeCe?" he whispered in my ear.

"Yes."

"Your parents?"

"In Portsmouth all day. Their annual day out before the summer hits."

"So soon after your grandmother?" he asked.

"It's good for them. It'll help Mom heal."

"Jordan?"

"At work. Out. Who knows?" I leaned back and looked Sergei in the eye, "Doesn't matter. We're consenting adults behind closed doors." I slipped off of the bed to help Sergei with his shoes, socks, and pants. Then, slowly, in the sweet scent of spring air, I undressed. Sergei reached out for me, my skin tingling everywhere he touched, like bioluminescence trailing a hand in the cold seawater. I drew closer, held his face in one hand and kissed him while my other hand trailed below, stroking and coaxing, which wasn't hard until it was with my magic touch.

I released him, then scooched back on the bed, "Come."

He glanced at the foot of the bed, then at me, "You are sure? Suddenly very eager."

"Very sure," I nodded. He followed me, gliding over me as I lay back. Wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, I said, "Welcome home."

"Da. Domoya," he gasped with the first thrust, which hurt, but he felt good, so full inside me. As the heat and weight of him washed through me, I turned my head to the window. A zephyr sailed through the pale curtains and they fluttered anxiously, as if to say hurry, hurry...

But hurry we did not. We took our time making love, as much as we could considering Sergei had gone without for quite a while. When he came, I clasped him like a Christmas brooch on a winter sweater and held him in place long after he finished. We lay awhile, warm and naked, talking, commenting on the crooked cracks in the ceiling, likening them to rivers on a map when that veil came over his eyes, "I'm hungry."

I kissed his brow, "I'll feed you."

Dressed and patient, Sergei sat in Mom's garden while I made sandwiches. I brought them outside, then sat next to him. "Wild back here, but in a few months, it'll be beautiful with all sorts of flowers."

Sergei closed his eyes briefly, "I believe it. Like dacha at home."

"Really? Looks like home?" I asked.

"Yes," he smiled.

And I wondered if, for him, it could ever feel like home.

***

April passed in blustery fashion; green and cold, beautiful and windy, with churning skies to match my moods; happy and anxious, joyful and angry. My period showed up on schedule and kept my emotions riding the waves, high and fast and relieved, then thrown down in disappointment, shattered, only to regroup and do it again.

Sergei and I continued seeing each other. I guarded my eagerness for the bedroom, to avoid suspicion, but also to quell a frantic swell I felt rising. I needed a breath of fresh air, and on a fair Friday evening in early May, an opportunity blossomed with the lilacs. A student quartet had advertised an al fresco concert on The Hill by the Woods, the unofficial name for the lawn by a copse of birch and Sweet William along the campus stream. Bring chairs or blankets.

Sergei had agreed to go, so I took a half-day off from work to get ready. First stop was Dad's shed. His battered white pickup truck wasn't in the driveway, and I figured he took Mom out for an early-bird special. She needed some pick-me-ups since Gam passed, even though theirs had never been a loving relationship.

I wrestled two trapped lawn chairs out of the shed, dodging booby traps of stacked buckets and tangled garden tools. The chairs creaked and resisted unfolding in the gravel driveway near the hose. I smiled; they reminded me of Sergei, poor guy, getting out of bed in the morning. I turned on the squeaky spigot and got to work. Soon hypnotized by the shush of water and watching the rivulets of shed-crud run down the legs, I didn't notice Mom until the toes of her ratty blue slippers appeared in my downcast field of vision.

I looked up, "Hey, Mom, how are ya? Where's Dad?" Her dishevelled hair and old house dress answered my first question.

She cocked her head, "What on earth are you doing with those chairs?"

Uh oh. Free concert on a pleasant spring evening. I should invite her. Might do her good to dress up and go out. "Uh, someone invited me to a cook-out this weekend. They said to bring chairs."

Still watching the water run, she said, "A bit early for cook-outs. Is it that nice house on the hill in Chester?"

"No." I wanted to spray her. No, it wasn't that nice house on the hill, Laslan's father's house. I was surprised she remembered it. She was invited there for a cook-out years ago. Once.

She watched a moment longer, then took a step back, "Well, don't forget to bring the chairs back."

"Really, Mom? They're worth two bucks at the scrapyard, at best, and you never use them, anyway," I frowned.

She huffed and disappeared into the house. I finished washing and set the chairs in the late sun to dry. Coiling the hose and brushing off my hands, I looked at the weatherbeaten back door and thought of my mother beyond, likely shuffling about the kitchen, prepping dinner as she'd done thousands of times already. I wondered if Dad noticed the slippage in her appearance. He still never said anything that I knew of.

Oh, well. Lemons to lemonade. I followed Mom into the house to spend a half hour with her, and to earnestly ask, "How are you?"

***

I felt better after chatting with Mom, ending with "I love you," but the long rays of the sun failed to iron out my mental wrinkles and Disarray beat me to Sergei's apartment. Books and papers and generic stuff cluttered his counters and table. He continued shuffling about after I arrived.

"Can I help you?" I asked, hanging my pocketbook.

"No, no, no," he waved his hand and shook his head. "I must decide what goes where and what stays."

So, I brewed a chamomile tea and sat out of his way, a little hurt seeing him preoccupied tonight, the night of our date. But it must have been natural, considering he had only about a month left to wrap up the semester and prepare for departure. When the last drop of tea went cold, he brought his phantom tasks to an acceptable finish and consented to leave.

Clasping a lawn chair beneath both of my arms, we walked to campus. I wanted to ignore Sergei's sullenness, for the early evening blushed peony in a way that makes you think you'll never feel bad again. Or at least not for a blessed hour or two. I needed a sweet hour of peace, no worries about Mom or Laslan or Sergei's departure.

I set up our chairs by the copse through which the stream ran, glad we both brought sweaters as Spring's cool tendrils still rose from the damp ground. Birds on the wing, however, seemed not to care, flitting and chirping among the trees, as if excited for this casual campus event.

Sitting apart from the sprinkling of students and faculty laying blankets and towels on the ground, I finally felt mellow and detached, happy to be outside on a date with my Moody Mr. Marchenkov; perfect evening, except for the skunky hint of weed wafting by. Oh well, kids will be kids, and so long as they didn't bother us, who cares? A breeze swept the skunkiness away.

The quartet warmed up as people chatted and laughed, and the breeze that swept away the weed now delivered to us notes of an unfamiliar piece. Scattered applause followed, then hushed by the cello's moan. Sergei's hand dropped just within my thigh, his thumb stroking my knee. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, likely tired and perhaps anxious about the next few months. The music took the reins of my mood, and I let Sergei go wherever he needed.

The breeze subsided as if subdued by the conductor's baton. The chattering birds above and chatting people below followed suit, everyone mesmerized by the viola's vibrations.

Except Sergei. His thumb paused. "Calliope."

I looked at him. "Yes?"

Eyes still closed, he said, "I have to tell you something."

My stomach knit. "Okay. I'm listening." The trill of the stream slunk beneath the whine of a violin. I stared at Sergei, who still sat motionless, except for his thumb, which resumed stroking my knee.

He inhaled deeply, then began, "Years ago, when I was seventeen, my family and I went to park, like this," his free hand made a small sweep, "for a concert, like this. My mother, father, twin sisters Inna and Lenushka. I saw a girl I knew and liked and she liked me. I excused myself to walk and meet with this girl, but Inna was bored, and my mother said to take her with me. I'm angry, but my father gave me that look, so Inna tagged along."

He took another deep breath, opened his eyes but did not seem to focus them. "Lenushka stays with mother and father. Anyway, we meet up with my girl, and she and I want to, you know," he waved his hand, "so, we walk along the river to bridge that goes to small island. I tell Inna, 'Pick flowers along the river.' The girl and I go to the island, up hill and behind huge fallen tree." He grinned briefly, "My first time, you know? And you would have liked that tree."

I smiled, "Oh, is that all you...," but he tipped his head back, closed his eyes again, and continued, "We finish and return to the bridge. I look for Inna, call for her, no Inna. I returned to my family. No Inna."

He went silent, the space filled by the murmuring stream and now-distant music. "Three days later, they find her downstream, caught on tree limb overhanging the water."

He turned his head toward me and opened his eyes, "I killed my sister, Calliope."

My ears hurt. I had trouble believing what I'd heard. "No, you didn't really kill her," I could barely whisper.

"By neglect, yes."

Suddenly, I felt very cold. "Sergei, I'm so...,"

"Hey, Professor M! How's it goin', man?"

I looked up. A tall, lanky-haired student beamed and waved as he passed us from behind. Sergei looked with stony eyes, but nodded. I scowled at the intruder. Then my jaw dropped. Next to him walked a young man with long, dark bangs--Jordan? He looked at me, then at Sergei, then clapped his buddy on the shoulder and said, "Come on, man, let's get a bite to eat." No wonder I smelled weed earlier. Jordan must do a killer business on campus.

Sergei growled and sank into his chair while my heart thumped in my stomach, "Hey, do you want to stay or go? I'm okay either way, and really, I am sorry about Inna." I nudged him gently with my knee. His thumb stroked it again, and he said, "We stay. Take our evening back."

After the next piece, though, I looked at him. I stood, lent my hand, and with the backs of the scattered concert-goers our only farewell, we folded up our chairs and left.

Lumbering back with a silent Sergei at my side, the image of a drowned girl hung up on a waterlogged tree clung to me. Even worse, I imagined his family abandoning their belongings in the park and desperately searching for their daughter.

When we arrived at my car, I dumped the chairs in the trunk, then said, "I have to go upstairs and get my pocketbook." Sergei nodded and preceded me. As he slowly took step after step, my shock wore off. Clearly before me, I saw a man who seemed tired to the core.

He should have told me sooner.

Oh really, Cal? When?--'Oh, before your tea turns cold, CeCe, did I mention...?'

I shook my head and reminded myself that it's not always about me.

With a shaky hand, Sergei turned the key. His shoulders rose and fell in what may have been a sigh. Inside, I reached for my pocketbook. He turned from the door and looked at me, "Stay. Pashzowsta."

"You sure?"

He locked the door, "Yes. I don't want anything, but stay."

I left my pocketbook hanging. He took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. We partially undressed, he got in and lay on my side of the bed, then I slipped in next to him, pulled up the covers, and wrapped my arm around my little wayward bird.

Sergei soon fell asleep. I did not. The evening's reveal kept me awake, and I watched the pastel sky turn plum, then witnessed a bright, brash, masculine moon ascend, casting shadows like broken underbranches of scrappy pines that grow and break with no regard for beauty.

Eventually, I succumbed to a spotty sleep, and somewhere in the night, Sergei and I morphed into separate positions. I drifted back to sleep, but reawakened with his hand on my shoulder, turning me towards him, rolling me onto my back. He kissed me, then threw the covers back and mounted me, fumbling like an eager schoolboy. He got through my underwear and into me, his panting in my ear not from oxygen burning in passion, but like something hunted in a dark woods. Heated words in Russian burned between my ear and the mattress and the white phosphorus flash of lovemaking left nearly as soon as it came. Sergei lay embedded on me until his breathing slowed, then he rolled off and fell back to sleep.

The wildfire encounter left me wanting more, yet feeling violated with no regard for me. As if I wasn't there. People can sleepwalk. Can they sleep fuck?

Chapter 27

The moment before breaking from sleep to consciousness, rejoining a world you know and leaving one you can't... I dreamed of running in torturous slow motion from an indefinable terror and when I woke and opened my eyes to the nondescript beige walls, I didn't know where I was. Chest sweaty, I turned my head and looked at the window; the sky had reverted from plum to pastel. Fresh air seeped through the window and I relaxed; Sergei's room, of course.

Next, my gaze drifted to the angel.

Sergei stirred and must have noticed the direction of my gaze. He sighed and said, "I never saw that girl again."

"No?" I turned my head to look at him. "Tell me, what did she look like?"

He didn't answer immediately, but seemed to gaze at the angel. "The girl? She looked like you."

For a moment, I didn't know what to say. I still don't. Who was I to him, really? I defaulted to sympathy, "Well, I'm sorry about everything you told me last night. There's so much I didn't know."

"How could you? Anyway, long time ago."

"Was it?"

Now he lay on his side, too, facing me, our heads nestled in pillows. "I wish."

"Tell me more about you."

"Well, I had older brother who died as infant. Obviously, I never knew him."

"I'm sorry. And your sisters, were they identical twins?"

"Yes."

Wow, talk about a double-kick to your gut for the rest of your life. "So, how does your surviving sister feel about this?"

"Lenushka? She grew up and had four children, boys," Sergei smiled. "She forgave me years ago. In fact, she says I must forgive myself someday, but how can I?"

I had no pat answer, just, "Appreciate what you have, I guess." Had I ever appreciated what I had? My family? Jordan? I did now. Then I stroked Sergie's cheek and said, "Um, last night."

"Last night?"

"You remember?" Sergei wrinkled his brow, so I said, "Never mind, but I have to know, am I still that woman, or am I my own person to you?"

He smiled, his eyes softened, "You have become your own."

"Tell me the progression, from her to me."

"Ah, progression." He stalled, then moved his head back on the pillow and squinted, "First time, shock. Eventually, annoyed. You don't pay attention in class...,"

"Did to," I frowned.

He took a deep breath, "Then, concern, sympathy, care, then the final blow."

"I stole your scarf?" I smiled.

"Love, my chickadee."

"Any lust?"

"Too much to mention without vulgarity, So, for you, am I still old, rude professor?"

"Yes," I wrapped my arm around him again, "and my friend. So, take me to Russia."

The veil I thought I'd never see again returned. The warmth left his eyes and he said, "Calliope, I cannot take you to Russia. Eto vseu*."

***

*That is all. That is all he said to me before we got out of bed that Saturday morning. Considering what he revealed the night before, I probably wouldn't have gotten much else, and it would have to do. Again.

Barefoot in his old pajamas, I padded out to the balcony while he used the bathroom. As I sat in the morning shadow with young green leaves rustling in the breeze, the contemplation of moving back home slipped into my mind. A trip to Russia seemed definitely out of the picture. Living at home was something I'd worked hard not for, but the reasons added up; to help with Mom, save money, and if I got pregnant, I'd want and need family with me. Jordan might pitch in, but he was young yet and shouldn't be chained to us.

And, of course, some protection from Laslan.

Sergei stepped onto the patio and held a nutty, steaming cup of coffee before me. "Spasseeba," I smiled, watching him as he walked around me with his own cup. He sat with a grunt, "Horosho. You daydreaming, dear?" he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

And I realized the biggest reason to move home; after Sergei left, I didn't want to live in a lonely apartment.

We took the morning easy, sipping and talking our way through two cups each, breathing deeply into this time we had together. After that, I helped Sergei fill a few boxes of items for Goodwill, which I put in my car. In the afternoon, we strolled the woods, then grocery shopping. In the evening, a movie on his laptop, for neither of us owned a TV. The entire day passed in such domestic fashion, that we could have been my mom and dad.

Mom and Dad. After Sergei turned off the lamp and lay quietly with me, thoughts from this morning resurfaced. Going back home. No place like home. Thank God. Sad and very necessary.

Sunday morning, preparing to leave, my hands shook while reaching for my pocketbook, as Sergei's hands did on Friday night while unlocking his door. I reminded myself that Sergei didn't leave for a month. No, thirty days. That sounded better. Soon enough, I'd reach for my pocketbook here one last time. I kissed Sergei far too many times when I said bye, but it got me an invite back that very night.

At my apartment, I drove carefully around the curved driveway. As expected on this pleasant Sunday morning, George had his bike out in the yard. I waved hello, then went in.

I started a load of laundry, including some of Sergei's, and opened a few windows. I checked my mail, feeling relieved that George was home. No signs of the demon. I locked the front door, watered my lemon trees, now about three inches tall, then set about a few more chores before Sunday at Mom's. When I got there, Jordan's rattrap sat behind Mom's dusty Buick, inherited from Gam when she quit driving years ago. I pulled in next to Jordan's car, looked around, got out, and pulled the borrowed lawn chairs from the trunk. I slammed the trunk shut, and a moment later, Jordan came out the back door and followed me to the shed. He caught up to me, eyed the chairs, then asked, "So?"

"So don't tell Mom what you saw, if you haven't already, and I won't tell Dad what I smelled. You don't want to get shipped back to that crazy lady down South, do you?"

"Hell, no! Hey, I was only seventeen and only got in a little trouble. Anyway, I ain't said a word to Mom, but geez, Callie."

Jordan unstuck the shed door and held it open. I tried walking into the shed again but gave up and hurled the chairs towards the back. They clattered among the junk. "Sorry, chairs," I shrugged and tripped out. "Listen, Jordie, I know. He's old, but I like him a horrible lot, and he's leaving soon. But please don't talk about him, okay? I don't want a third degree from Mom."

"I hear ya," Jordan body-slammed the door shut. "Does this guy have a name?"

"No." The long grass shushed as I kicked through it. "Anyway, I need to run something by you." We reached the patio. Jordan plunked down on the creaky glider and asked, "What, you want to join the business?"

"No." I plunked down next to him. He nudged me and said, "My pal, the other night, he said you were hot."

"Right. I doubt he knew what he saw."

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry, I told him you were definitely not hot."

I punched Jordan's arm. He flinched and snorted, then said, "Okay, really, whatcha' need to talk about? Douchebag sniffing around again?"

I felt as if I went pale and quickly looked at the ground. Don't bring up the note. "No, not him." I looked at Jordan, "It's Mom. Do you think she's getting weirder or is it my imagination?"

"She's worse." Jordan picked dirt from his thumbnail.

"Does Dad seem to notice?"

"Not that I can tell." He continued cleaning his nails as we rocked gently, silently, for a few moments. Then I said, "Jordan, I'm thinking about moving back home. Maybe."

Jordan laughed, "Really? After all the crap you give me about living at home? Why?"

Careful as you go... "Well, to help out with Mom if she gets real bad. You're too young to get stuck at home, plus, I'll save money and help out with the bills. And if Mom's getting some sort of dementia--Grandpa had it, too, she's going to need services maybe and extra medical and we know Dad's employment has never been real stable."

Jordan nodded, "That's for sure. But I don't know, Cal. Do you really want to move back home?"

A chickadee flitted over my head and into the apple tree by the old stone wall. "I'll do what I gotta do to help out."

Jordan side-eyed me, "Sounds like a prepackaged response, Cal. I'm not sure I buy it, but hey, Gam won't need your room again."

The patio door creaked. I looked as Mom poked her head out and said, "Someone set the table." Jordan raised his hand, "Okay, Mom. Calliope will be right in."

Mom shut the door. I looked at Jordan and realized he hadn't toked in the past fifteen minutes since I arrived. He didn't even smell of weed at all. "So, maybe you and I should ambush Dad after dinner, get a read on his awareness, so to speak."

Jordan shrugged, "Sure, I'm game." We got up, Jordan following me to the patio door. "And Cal?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for thinking about moving back."

"Sure thing." I started to open the door, then stopped. With my fingertips on the splintery edge of the door, I looked at Jordan and said, "Thanks for being an okay brother, sometimes."

Jordan chuckled, "You better believe it."

At a well-set table and with polite manners and conversation, we ate Sunday dinner as Mom had cooked for us countless times, and she never asked for a thank you. However, this time, we all thanked her earnestly and cleared the table. Jordan and I looked at each other, then he said, "Hey, Dad, have a beer with me in the living room. Your show's almost on."

Dad frowned as his big fingers gingerly placed the water glasses in the sink, "What show, Jordan?"

"Come get your beer and find out." Like a carrot on a stick leading an ass, Dad trailed after a beer to anywhere. He lumbered after Jordan and the beers into the living room. I helped Mom with a few more dishes, then snuck away while she prepped dessert.

Dad and Jordan sat on the couch. The TV babbled about antacids. I slipped into the easy chair between the couch and the bay window and waited for Jordan's cue. They sipped the beers, from which I abstained because Dad felt that young ladies shouldn't drink. Oh well. M. A. S. H. returned and Dad laughed at the decades-old humor. During the next ad, Jordan pressed the mute button. "So Dad, how's Mom doing?"

"Ah well, you know, her mom died. Sometimes she takes it hahd."

I leaned in and asked, "How so? I mean, is she crying a lot? Anything different?"

"Nah. Sleeps late a lot, but that's natural, I guess."

"Do you think she's forgetting stuff?" Jordan asked.

"Everyone forgets stuff. You forgot Sunday dinnah last week." Dad belched, then swigged and laughed at M. A. S. H. until Mom called, "Dessert's ready!"

"A'right, turn that off," Dad said, then huffed and puffed and rocked himself off the couch. Jordan and I looked at each other and shrugged. We didn't get far, but at least we started.

Jordan went upstairs right after dessert. I spent a little time with Mom and Dad, then excused myself to my room. Each run of the staircase responded with a creak, and I relived a moment with each step; the fear of witches as a child; the refuge sought after hurtful days in school; secrets that sent Mitzi and I into hysterical laughter on sultry summer nights; and, of course, what Laslan did to me. And years later, what Sergei did for me.

A line of light glowed beneath Jordan's closed door. Music, too, but otherwise quiet. He liked to read, probably making up for the intellectual deprivation of living with Mom and Dad. I tiptoed to my door, pressed down on the iron latch, and pushed.

The stuffy room looked gray on the dimmer side of twilight. I opened the dormers to blow out the stank, then stood reflecting on the lilacs below the western window. Deep breath, turn my head, look around. Could I come back? No malicious vibes. Nothing. Just a room seen through the gray lens of the past. All it needed was a fresh coat of New Purpose.

I smiled, "Yes. We can do that."

Chapter 28

Riding into mid-May felt like driving an ill-packed, shuddering UHaul down a dirt road. I went to work, loved Sergei, planned my moves, even fielded a phone call from Dad, asking me to meet Mom at a gas station nearby and help her drive home. She had gotten lost driving to the grocery store. Otherwise, life ran on regular, yet I felt far from stable.

Thank God for Javin. He must have noticed the fried look in my eyes, looking at me a moment longer than usual and asking, "You okay?" Sometimes he'd sit and listen to my emo-dump without interrupting, then say, "I'm here all the time, Cal. I always got an ear for you." Then he'd turn his head and say, "Even two!" It never failed to make me smile.

Sadly, even with Javin's support, the days left the nest one-by-one, and far too quickly. I left off my Duolingo Russian lessons. Between that and Sergei's on-the-fly tutelage, we held very simple conversations in Russian, but I wondered if it was worth it anymore, partly from practicality, partly pain. I needed to let it go. Maybe I needed to ramp up the yoga and take up drawing again.

But the conscious mind is a futile liar. My heartbeat continued... no, don't go... no, don't go.

Late May. Panic Mode kept at bay with deep breaths. I dabbed my eyes with a damp paper towel in the ladies room at work. Several students had organized a bon voyage party for Sergei. He invited me, but understood if I didn't want to go, and agreed to play it cool if I did.

I didn't want to go, but I did want to see him among his students one last time, just as when I first met him. Mr. Garabedian was fine with me stepping out for a couple hours, but as I walked through the pressroom, my legs felt unsure of themselves. I gave a quick wave to Javin, who gave me a nod over the spinning press. I slipped out the back door, drove to campus, and slipped in through the back door of the very same coffee shop from our failed first date last fall.

Ordering an herbal tea, I posted myself on a stool against the wall. Students whom I recognized, but didn't notice me, pushed tables and chairs together. A few moments later, my love in a straw trilby arrived. His face lit up when he saw me, but he merely nodded.

The dark-haired student, now with less acne, followed Sergei, then dropped his backpack on a chair near me and asked, "Hey, you were in Russian lit, right?"

I nodded.

"Did Iris tell you about the party?"

My mouth opened; to lie or not to lie? "No, Sergei...,"

Flirty Iris breezed in, beaming at Sergei. The dark-haired guy turned to her and said something in her ear. She looked at him, then gave me a once-over as if jealous, but a moment later, another young woman arrived and gave Iris a kiss on the lips. They sat across from Sergei, started talking and laughing and ignoring me already. I chuckled at myself; I had nothing to fear regarding Iris and Sergei after all.

A few professors and more students ushered in, breaking out in hi's, hello's, and privyet's, pinging between the tables and the counter, ordering drinks and pastries. One student with a wide smile took Sergei's order. Sergei nodded, then glanced sideways at me. It sucked that we couldn't sit together and I felt as if a thick wall of glass separated us.

Two women and a man, dressed in scrubs, each gave Sergei a kiss on the cheek, which made him blush. Perhaps the physical therapy students who practiced on him? They dragged more chairs to the table as the small gifts and cards piled before the man of the hour, the chatter piling higher.

Glued to my reclusive stool, I sat just close enough to hear snippets of conversation, yet removed from the bustle. My usual peripheral location. The chamomile tea warmed my hands as a couple of lit students looked at me, their eyebrows knit, then they smiled and waved. Probably had trouble placing me. Otherwise, I was a fly on the wall, which suited me fine. Sergei beamed and laughed and made others laugh, too, recalling Danté's nascent attempt at writing poetry in second-year Russian. Finally, Sergei started on the cards, reading each aloud, reviving rounds of laughter and thanking each student.

I sat back and took it all in, bowled over by how much he seemed to touch others' lives. The tea eased my stomach and I sank into a warm fuzz, watching Sergei exhaust the cards, then start on the gifts. He unwrapped a small jar and thanked Jenna. Omar presented a university pocket calendar. Next, Iris pushed her gift toward him. He unwrapped it, then held aloft a linen dish towel imprinted with New Hampshire highlights like Mount Washington and White Island lighthouse. "Thank you, Iris," he said, "my wife will love it."

A tingle prickled throughout my body as my vision rolled back, like a camera trick in a movie. My wife? The chatter turned to a dull ache in my ears. Iris glanced at me. Sergei did not look my way at all, but I detected that veil.

No. It's loud in here. He probably said something in Russian and I misheard it.

Really?

I must have looked like an ass with my pasted-on smile, yet feeling like a sack of sand thrown overboard. I couldn't afford to ignore my instinct; he had finally slipped. No wonder he wouldn't take me with him.

My stomach acted up again as I realized my mistake. I assumed an older, grumpy, arthritic man with a cane wouldn't be married, and that was my blind spot. Why had I been so haughty? Why had I assumed? Obviously, I wasn't as open-minded as I thought. Run run run beat my heart, but my leaden legs wouldn't budge. Nausea welled, but I fought it back by gulping my remaining tea, forcing it through stomach knots. I had nowhere else to put the tea, anyway, except in Sergei's face. But I didn't want to make a scene. I had to live here long after he left and I just wanted to leave. Now. But classes must have let out because a fresh wave of students swelled in, seeking caffeine and camaraderie. Anatomy students with blood-n-guts books spilled over the table behind me and blocked the back door. A student serpentine clogged the front door. Unseated patrons clustered, laughing and talking in diminishing space.

Drawing the last sip from the cup, I glared at Sergei from behind the rim, at he who still would not look at me. I'd have to sit tight until...,

"Hey hey!" Some loud-mouth shouted, decibels above everyone else.

I looked.

"Hey, Cal-I-O-P!"

A tall young man with black eyes and a mop of curly brown hair morphed from the crowd. My arm froze, the cup stuck to my lips. I sensed Sergei looking my way. The whole coffee shop seemed to shut up and stare at me with my back fused to the wall, trapped.

No.

Laslan slithered through the crowd and came towards me. "Callie, hey! How's it goin?" Young women watched him as he looked down his nose at me, drawing closer. He leered, "What, no hug?"

... the wave, pushed by the sea, shatters... No.

My hand clenched then dropped the cup. "Aw, Laslan Caulder," I sneered back. "Good ol' Laslan Caulder."

Anchoring my heel on the rung of the stool, I raised my arms straight as if to embrace, then propelled from the stool. Driving my knuckles into his chest, I knocked him to the floor. His head cracked on the hardwood.

"Rapist!" I hissed, then spit in his face.

"Rapist!" My head felt like lava exploding while the heel of my pumps drove into his stomach. Dickhead rolled and puked on some girl's shoes.

I wobbled backwards. "I wish you...," I bit my tongue. Then I straightened my skirt and slipped through a path that cleared through the door. On legs that felt like tree stumps, I walked down the side alley as quickly as I could. Laslan wouldn't be on his feet anytime soon, and no one pursued me. If I ran, I'd trip, and I didn't want to lose time putting distance between Laslan and me, the ungrateful bitch who dumped him. But then I realized, why should I have to run anyway? My head-spin slowed to a daze, and mercifully I recalled a tucked-away grove nearby wherein I might hide and clear my head. I didn't dare to drive yet.

Collapsing in the cool grass behind an ancient maple far from the sidewalk, I dug a tissue out of my pocketbook. Thank God I'd worn it cross-body or I might have left it behind. At least one less thing to worry about as tears and snot caught up with me. I took deep breaths and blew my nose. Unreal, hiding and sobbing like a child, after doing exactly what I didn't want to; ruin Sergei's party and making a scene at the coffee shop. I would never set foot there again.

But then I burst out laughing. At least fifty or so people, many of them women, witnessed the accusation of rape. If he pressed charges against me, the whole story would come out. Would he want that? Logic calmed me. My heartbeat slowed, but the next thought flowed; did Sergei really say wife? I thought the confession regarding his sister explained his shut-downs, but obviously there had been more. And me, like my father with his head in the sand, didn't help. I leaned against the tree and asked God to just take everything for now. Eventually, sunlight reached through the boughs and lay a warm hand on my arm, as if to say, 'Time to go,' and I agreed.

I peered around the rough trunk of the tree, then walked to my car. Returning to my apartment first, I sat on the couch with a cool washcloth over my face. My eyes closed, I pictured the matryoshka watching me and said, "Mama, we got a lot done today."

She seemed to answer, "More than you know."

***

I headed back to work and slipped in unnoticed, I hoped. Paperwork, a few phone calls, and eventually, employees bidding each other good night. I stood and wandered to the window, the sky an ombré of cornflower blue to warm rose. If Laslan pressed charges, fuck it. Let him. And Sergei? That was the stickier problem.

Someone rapped at the door, "Hey, Callie."

I recognized Javin's voice and turned, "Hey, J, what's up?"

"I need a can of two-thirty-five. Don't have that extra can after all."

I sat and jotted the number. "Two thirty-five, okay. I'll call it in for tomorrow's shipment."

Javin lingered, "Is everything okay?"

The office chair squeaked beneath me. I couldn't look him in the eye, "It's been a strange day, that's all." Finally, I did look at him. "No offense, but I'm just not ready to talk about it."

He held up his hand, "That's cool, no pressure. You okay, though?"

I forced a smile through my stiff cheeks, "I will be. Someday."

"Okay," he laughed. "Honesty. I like it."

I don't, apparently.

Javin turned and headed toward the pressroom.

"Javin," I called after him.

"Yes?"

"Your wife's a lucky woman."

He laughed again, "You be sure to tell her that! I tell her all the time and she still don't believe it." He laughed again, then sang all the way to the pressroom.

A song in his heart, which I admired and envied. But I didn't want to envy a friend, nor anyone else. I had to find my own song. I took a moment longer to breathe and simply do nothing, then turned my cell phone on. Two calls and a text from Sergei, but courage failed me. I closed my door although few people remained in the shop.

Holed up, again. Hiding. Again.

I turned my cell phone over and over in my hands. Of course, Sergei was probably worried. I should at least let him know that I was okay, and like it or not, clarify what I heard in the coffee shop.

That nasty knot hardened in my stomach again. Quarter past six. He'd be home most likely, or maybe still on campus. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me. I grabbed the wastebasket, lined, thank God, but nothing came. The nausea left a cold sweat in its wake.

The office phone rang. I dropped the wastebasket and took a breath, "Prism Graphics, Calliope speaking. How may I help you?"

A pause. Oh no, who the fuck is it now?

"CeCe?"

I sighed, "Yes."

"Are you okay?"

Another wave, but I fought it, "Do you care?"

"Please, listen, you don't answer your phone, so I call here," his voice broke.

"Well, of course. I work here. I'm surprised you remember the name."

"Calliope."

"It slipped out, didn't it?" Now I felt flush, "The truth, it came out. You're married, yes?"

After a pause, he said, "Calliope, it's complicated."

"What, a yes or no answer. Doesn't seem complicated to me. At least you got to fuck me for six months." I shook my head, my eyes hot but dry. No tears left. "I have myself to blame. I knew something wasn't right, and you're leaving, so....," Now my voice cracked, "So what does it matter?"

"Calliope, please, we need to talk. There are things you should know."

"Why? You had your fun and now you're leaving. What's there to talk about?" I rubbed my forehead violently-- Don't have this discussion at work.

"CeCe, I tell you in person, not over the phone. Please, come after work."

No time like the present. The only time, really. Only Javin and I remained, and even he washed up his press early on this delicate spring evening. I neatened the lobby and the bathroom to keep me from stewing over today and the undulating nausea. Looking at my eyes in the mirror, had they grown deeper and darker, or was it a trick of the light?

Javin escorted me to my car after we closed shop. "Same time tomorrow?" he smiled.

"Yeah, same time," I wanly smiled back.

"All right, then. I'll see you then."

"Yes, you will." The routine felt comforting.

Halfway to home, I pulled into a convenience store and backed into a corner space. I shut off the engine, and watched people come and go under the eerie yellow glow of street lights.

Home or Sergei's?

In the stillness of my car, my heart spoke, Talk to him. Angry? Of course. But I loved him. And considering the shit with Laslan, better to stay away from my apartment. But I wasn't ready to talk. I turned the ignition and drove home.

Chapter 29

Mom's head swivelled as I walked through the door.

"You guys really should lock the doors, especially at night." I said.

Mom shrugged and resumed knitting, "Dad's home. Besides, what would anyone want from this place?"

"You never know." Any more discussion and I'd raise concern.

Mom stopped knitting, then asked, "What day is today?"

"Wednesday. I just felt lonesome for you, Mom, so here I am." I plopped onto the couch and kissed her soft cheek.

She smiled, "Well, that's nice. If you're hungry, there's...,"

"No, it's okay," I held up my hand. "I'm tired. I think I'll go right to bed."

"Oh, okay," her face seemed to fall. "Jordan's not home, so it should be nice and quiet up there." Nice and quiet. Come to think of it, Jordan was always quiet upstairs anyway, and I wasn't sure quiet was what I wanted, but rather needed.

Tonight, I welcomed the creak of the stairs and the stillness of my room. I opened the windows to sweep out the stale air and gazed over Mom's garden. Wee bright buttons of buttercups glowed in the dark, alone, but hopeful.

Slowly, I drew my phone from my pocketbook and pressed 'Sergei'.

"CeCe?" he answered.

"Hi. I'm staying at Mom's tonight. I need to."

A pause. "Yes, okay. I understand."

"I'm not ready to talk. And I don't want to stay at my apartment."

"Yes, of course. But, CeCe, please let us talk at least one more time. I must explain."

One more time. It sounded so final. I agreed to talk again later, then we said goodnight. Exhaustion conquered and I fell asleep in my clothes.

Sunlight warmed my toes through the east window. I felt like I had fallen asleep only a moment ago, perhaps because I slept like a log; a heavy, uncured one.

I rolled over on my right side and surveyed the room. Picturing a crib in the corner made me smile, despite recent revelations. Good. Gut reactions tell you much, and time for me to trust it. Mitzi even used to say, "Just flip a coin and see how you feel."

Then my smile drained. What if I didn't conceive? My gut reaction; sad and empty.

Too many things to juggle early in the morning. I changed into old sweats and let Mom fuss over me during breakfast. Apparently, Jordan had come and gone already, but I did say hi to Dad, who uttered a gruff 'Hey, Cal,' as he passed by. After helping Mom with the dishes, she and I sat on the glider in the garden, enjoying a cup of tea while she chatted about cabbage butterflies and cowbirds and such. I just sipped and rocked and listened, wondering when to return to Sergei.

Then I got an idea.

***

Mr. Garabedian was amenable to me taking another half-day, in trade for weekend work sometime. So, around four-thirty, I left work and drove to campus on this clear and beautiful Thursday. I parked, then walked to the Language Arts building, then lingered around the corner until five, the end of Sergei's office hours.

The heavy glass door gave way with a deep exhale into the cool, still hallway. The directory showed Sergei's office on the second floor, and as I ascended the stairs, I heard voices in American-accented Russian, then dos vedanyas. Two students with backpacks flapping against their backs skipped down the stairs, their laughter echoing until punctuated with the clunking of a door beyond. Silence again, save for the scuff of my soles against the last steps. Walking heel to toe in flats, I crept to Sergei's door and gently rapped.

Sergei said something in Russian, but did not open the door. I rapped again. I thought I heard a sigh, then shuffling and grumbling, "Please come back tomorrow at...," he opened the door, then stopped and stared. "Oh, uh..."

"Calliope. My name's Calliope, from Russian Lit 101, remember?"

He opened the door wide, stepping aside as I stepped in and surveyed his office; books, a desk and chair, an old loveseat with side table and lamp. Clasping my hands, said, "So, this was your life for the past two years."

"Not all of it," he said. I heard the door click. "Please, sit."

I sat at the end of the loveseat. He sat at his desk. We looked at each other silently until I asked, "So, you are married, correct? I heard you right at the coffee shop?"

He closed his eyes and nodded.

I felt a kick to the chest, but nothing else. "And you said you needed to explain something."

He took a deep and silent breath, leaned back, hands holding the arm rests of his chair, "Calliope, first, I am sorry. The last thing I want is to hurt you. I wanted to tell you." He took another breath, "But I did not want you to go." He then smiled a little, "You make me happy, happiest I have felt in many, many years." His face softened as he gazed at me, like stepping into another time, then, the veil, "Sasha, uh, my wife, and I, we start well years ago. I had better health, we were young. I work, she works, a few years go by, no children. Well, she conceived once, but by then, she loved her career more than me, so, without my consent, she..., well, never mind. More years, her career, very good. Mine, eh," he see-sawed a hand. "We drift apart. Not much there anymore, like roommates in a very nice apartment, nothing more." A slip of air escaped him, "Nothing more."

"And so, that's why no children?" I barely said.

He nodded, his eyes on me never wavering. "I am sorry to hurt you, CeCe. I never wanted that, but I did want you. I have been selfish."

I let his words settle in my mind. I couldn't feel angry at him anymore. "Perhaps I'm selfish, too, and...," I looked down at my hands, my fingers tugging at my knuckles.

"And?"

I took a deep breath, "Well, hunting you down until you gave me safe haven, ignoring all the signs." I looked at him. He smiled and said, "I am glad you did hunt me down."

"Okay, but then why are you still married if there's nothing there anymore? Oh, let me guess--it's complicated."

He leaned back, scowling, but not for long. He shrugged, then leaned towards me, hands on his knees, "It is what it is. But now, you tell me, this man at coffee shop?"

Now it was I who nodded. Sergei moved from the chair to the loveseat and asked, "If he reports what you did, what then?"

"You mean what if he reports to the police that he got beat up by a girl who called him a rapist in front of fifty people?"

Sergei cocked his slightly, "Hm, yes, true. But what are we going to do about him?"

"I don't know," my voice trailed off as I stared into the trees beyond the window. "I don't know, but what I do know is that you and I only have ten days left. What are we going to do, you and I?"

Sergei unfurled his arm and waved me to him. I hesitated, then lay my head on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around me. "What we do now is go for nice dinner and enjoy this evening. As friends." He gently kissed the top of my head, "No secrets."

No secrets. After a few minutes together, I stood and so did he. As I watched him neaten up his office, I felt perturbed that likely he really, truly had no more secrets. But me? I wasn't so pure and I hated that. A sharp ray of sun flashed through the leaves outside as if to say, 'Stop lying all the time.'

Sergei put on his hat and jacket, picked up his cane, and smiled. "We go." He locked his door, and slowly we descended the stairs side-by-side. Outside, Sergei reached out and took my hand.

That night we talked over a leisurely dinner al fresco in an old milltown nearby. I felt a weight lifted between us, despite not disclosing my plan. I couldn't. Sergei didn't need to know. Not now. But over scallops wrapped in bacon and buttery pasta, I realized how ugly it felt keeping secrets from a friend. I couldn't finish my glass of Rosé, so I pushed it away. Sergei finished it while I sipped water instead.

Sergei paid as the sun set, then we strolled the streambank until dark. Later, parked at his apartment, my fingers rested on the steering wheel. Sergei silently watched me. I turned off the ignition, then followed him upstairs.

***

Friday morning. Sergei still had work, and later, so did I. He bade me to keep the borrowed T-shirt, and sent me home with his down comforter and extra sheets. He needed them no more and doubted that the next tenants would want them. The linens felt heavy; usually I welcomed good second-hand items, but these carried the heavy handshake of goodbye.

Sergei agreed to spend the night later on at my place. A snug fit in my twin bed, sure, but he grinned and said I was welcome to sleep on my couch. I smiled and kissed him and said, "Til eight-thirty." The long day passed, but by eight-fifty pm, we sat on my back porch, sipping iced herbal teas. When finally we turned in, he stopped at the threshold of the living room, pointed to the matryoshka and said, "She will keep you company, CeCe. When I go, tell her your thoughts, and she relays them to me." I snorted at the silly idea, but I half-believed it, too, and it gave me an idea, too.

On Sunday, while Dad carved a roast under Mom's direction, I rifled through her Christmas wrapping stock. From the wrapping, I withdrew a strand of narrow red ribbon. Later, at my apartment, I snipped a lock of my hair, tied it with the ribbon, and nested the keepsake in the middle matryoshka, soon returning to Russia with my favorite crabapple tree sketch.

I reached for the sketch, still hanging on the wall, then paused. I wanted to keep it, like I wanted to keep him. It would remind me of his beauty and strength in a bent-up body. But I had to let him go. Just let him go, and let him have the sketch that I rolled and stowed in a paper towel tube. At least it could serve him as a reminder of me.

The tree and the matryoshka sat side-by-side on my table beneath an empty space on the wall. A space easier to fill than the one in my heart.

Then, a week flew by.

***

Friday morning, the day before departure. The sun rose as it always did, ignoring the fact that this morning marked our last full day together. I got up out of our sparsely made bed, shut the blinds completely, then climbed back into bed, "Go away, Sun, and never come back."

Sergei chuckled.

"Seriously," I took his face in my hands, "I want the sun to stop rising and setting, and the world to stop turning so you get stuck here."

He half-smiled and touched my chin, nothing more.

I sighed and lay back down, "All right, then, if I can't have you forever, I can have you today."

"You work?"

"No! Took the day off, of course, what with you leaving tomorrow." I took his hand, "What should we do?"

"Lake?" he suggested.

"Too many memories."

"Ocean?"

"Too many tourists."

We were quiet, staring at the ceiling, when Sergei squeezed my hand, "I know what we do. We visit your grandmother."

I turned my head and stared at him, "Gam's dead, but at least she won't say much."

"Just as well. However, I should pay my respects."

I rubbed my forehead, "Well, okay, but are you sure you want to go to a cemetery?" I looked at him. He closed his eyes briefly and nodded.

We dressed; I out of my overnight bag, he out of his black suitcase packed with a couple days worth of clothes. We ate breakfast out, as his apartment hadn't a morsel of food; the refrigerator a gaping maw of cold and light, the food cabinets advertising their emptiness with an echoing clack when shut. On the counter, nothing but a cardboard box of items that Sergei wished to leave me. Next to the box, the two tea cups were left out, just in case. I'd take the box tomorrow morning at the last minute, for I needed something to remain in the apartment.

Clear, bright morning, as if mocking me. I turned the car slowly onto the broken pavement of Harmony Grove Cemetery and wound down to the nook in the oaks, wherein Gam and Grandpa lay planted, but never to sprout. My arm felt stiff reaching for the door latch as I wondered if Gam cursed us for depositing her next to Grandpa. At least she'd have someone to harass. Or maybe it was Grandpa who cursed us.

Sergei offered his arm as we hiked the hillock to Gam's new place. Skinny grass grew in the hardscrabble over her grave. "Frau Langer, we meet again," Sergei smiled.

"And shit, I forgot flowers," I added.

Sergei shrugged, "No matter now. Did you bring her flowers while alive?"

"No. She'd probably bitch and say they were a waste of money."

Sergei shook his head, "Really, was she ever happy?"

"No. She just...," I paused, raising my sight to the fluttering oak leaves, "she never seemed to appreciate anything."

Sergei turned his eyes to me, "Mm hm." Then he squeezed my arm, "Come, we say privyet to her new neighbors."

A breeze carried the salty scent of the nearby bay through the oaks and cedars as we wove amongst gray granite headstones frosted in lichen and dried bits of grass thrown up by lawn mowers. Unfamiliar and irrelevant dates of likely forgotten people passed by until I stopped. A tiny marble lamb rested upon a small headstone. A child, not yet a year old. I contemplated the tiny grave for a moment, then silently we turned and headed back to Gam to say goodbye.

"She gave us her blessing," Sergei said.

"She what?"

He sighed, "When we visited her, she asked for my address while you used the restroom. Something she won't tell me, but in writing, private."

The letter. The one I couldn't ask about.

"She writes, she has not long to live, and I seem like good man," he stopped for a short, sharp breath, "and if ever, well, she gives her blessing."

I stared at Sergei, his eyes a hard, dry kind of sad. Then I asked, "Will we ever be happy?"

"I don't know, Calliope, but if I could, would you?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

After dinner, we returned to Sergei's. Despite the fact that my apartment was stocked and furnished, I think we both wanted to spend our last night in the place we might have called home. And on the patio of the little place we almost called home, we opened a half-bottle of Veuve and poured it into the tea cups. However, the rich orange label didn't cheer me as it had on Christmas Eve. We sat on the patio, sipping in silence, watching the tangerine sunset burn through the treetops. I set down my unfinished champagne and reached for Sergei's hand. He also set down his half cup, and said, "Me, too." He grasped my hand and half-smiled. "Not really something to celebrate."

"No," I mumbled, my one leg dangling over the other. "Let's go in."

I watched Sergei wash and dry the cups, then slowly put them in the box. He turned to me and said, "CeCe, wear the gown. One more time."

I did. I wore the gown for our last waltz to a ghost tune in the kitchen. Tracing the side of his face, I asked, "Will you miss me?"

He did not smile, "Calliope, how can you ask such question?"

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. He took my heart and gave it to you."

"And I am glad to keep it."

"Fine," I smiled sadly, "but will I ever get it back?"

We made love on Night's last legs. After, he lay on me, the heat of his skin soaking through mine, the rough hairs of his chest imprinting on my breasts. Our hearts seem to beat in sync, as if we shared one.

And perhaps we did.

***

Nine am, Saturday morning. Sergei sat motionless on the patio as I slipped out the door for coffee and bagels. We ate little; any wonder we ate at all. I wrapped the remainders in napkins and insisted he put them in his briefcase, in case he got hungry later. Then I presented my gifts from home. "Small," I said, barely above a whisper, handing him the matryoshka and the rolled-up tree sketch. "They should fit in your suitcase." I couldn't hold back the tears any more.

Sergei wrapped his hands around my shoulders, "Shh, CeCe, don't fret. There is nothing I can ever give you but this box of trinkets. I have no youth, no money, no title or property. Nothing."

With a huff, I straightened and turned. My finger tracing the counter, I walked to the end and stopped. I looked at the spot on the table where, months ago, I'd touched his hands for the first time and the sun warmed them. No. He had given me much. I slowly walked back to him and said, "Sergei, you gave me your time and patience, and your experience and wisdom." I stopped before him, "And most of all, you gave me comfort when I needed it most. Now, you tell me, how many people in your life ever gave you so much?"

He tilted his head and opened his mouth as if to speak, but a honk from outside interrupted. My stomach dropped. Likely the airport shuttle.

My hands shook as he pushed the box of sundries towards me. I peeked inside; near the top, the linen dish towel from Iris. I picked it up with my fingertips as if it burned, "Huh, the tinder." I looked at Sergei and sighed, "No, keep it. Give it to your wife."

"I can't."

Laying the towel on the counter, I said, "I don't want it."

Sergei smiled. He opened a drawer and swiped the towel into it, "Gift for next tenant."

"Perfect."

The vehicle outside honked again. Sergei poked his head out the door and held up a finger, then shut the door. We packed our last minute items, then I looked around his apartment one more time. Mustering the deepest breath I could handle, I gathered the last bags and the box as Sergei lay the apartment key on the counter and the shuttle driver helped with the suitcase.

Never had a flight of stairs felt so long, yet I feared the last step, as if the ground wasn't ground but rather a cold black lake; one step and you sink. We stood by the shuttle as the driver put the suitcase in the back. "Well," Sergei started, his voice miles away. He looked as if he knew not what to do, so I crushed him in my arms and whispered, "I hate you, you know." I felt him chuckle, then he said, "And I love you, CeCe." He gave into my crush, exhaled, and said, "Goodbye."

I crushed him once more and whispered, "Never."

And then I let him go.

Part Two

Chapter 30

Sunday morning. I opened my eyes. Blank beige wall before me. Blinking, my eyes felt scratched, and my insides hollow, like that matryoshka missing her child. Then I realized I was still missing my period. By over a week now. The first several days it was missing, I had chalked up to stress from the altercation with Laslan and to Sergei's impending departure. Now, the fear I was pregnant was agonizing, and equally agonizing if I wasn't.

I hauled myself out of bed, then paused before the dresser. In the front corner of the top drawer, I'd stashed two pregnancy tests. And in a rear corner, the slippery ultrasound photos of a tiny life, Laslan's child. I pulled the drawer just open enough to retrieve the tests, then shut it with a clack.

Running a slow bath to put off what I must do, I slowly trailed my hand through the water. Regardless of the results, I knew I'd need a soak afterwards. Turning the water to a trickle, as Sergei taught me, I sat on the toilet, read the test instructions three times, then took the test. I lay the stick flat on the sink counter and closed my eyes, listening to the water trickle until a few minutes passed.

The test was positive.

I felt the blood drain from my face, although I still smiled. Leaving the stick on the sink, I slowly pulled off my faded pajamas, looking at the test at least five times, as if it might suddenly turn negative, like some kind of joke. It did not. Nor did the second test turn negative.

I slipped into the tub and lay back. Warm water enveloped me as I listened to the drip-drip, like echoing footsteps in Sergei's apartment. I did it. But I dared not think further about it right now lest Fate take a heavy hand to the baby I wanted, in trade for the baby I didn't. But how to think of anything else? When you aren't pregnant, you can go about day after day pretending you're the same person; when you are pregnant, you can't, for you change daily whether you like it or not.

I couldn't share this yet with anyone, especially not Sergei. I didn't dare tell him until the baby lay warm and secure in my arms, for she could leave any time between now and birth, and I didn't want to worry Sergei for nothing. I slipped deeper into the water and smiled; me and mine, and maybe ever just the two of us. The dripping water kept its aqueous time.

Monday, nine am. Sipping coffee at the table, I gazed back at the angel on my wall, the angel that Sergei left to take care of me and keep me company. "Watch over us," I smiled. Maybe she had already. Mom didn't press for details yesterday when I called out sick for Sunday dinner. At best, a mixed blessing though, since her lack of concern demonstrated a subtle change in her behaviour.

My phone rang and vibrated on the kitchen counter. A foreign number. I paused, then picked up,

"Hello?"

"Hallo, CeCe?"

I smiled, "Hey, did you get home okay?

"Yes, yes, tired, but home." The low tone on the last word struck me. I didn't like it coming from his mouth. I switched the phone to my other hand, "Yeah, that's good. I guess." My shaky, sweaty hand tried to bring the teacup to my lips. He must have noticed the pause, "CeCe, are you well?"

The angel watched. I responded, "I'm still shocked that you're gone." A sip of coffee went down my throat as a lump.

"Ah, well, pregnant pause." He sighed, then continued, "Maybe never feels right."

For whom? Him or me? With a shake of the head, I asked, "So, how was the trip?"

"The trip? Long. Hard to get up and stretch on that airplane, but I did it."

I heard him yawn. "Sergei, you sound tired. Why don't you get some sleep."

"Yes."

"And Sergei?"

"Yes?"

"Are you glad to be home?"

He seemed to take a deep breath, "Yes. And no."

Yes, and no. We soon said goodbye, and I lay the phone face-down on the table. He'd said his marriage was no good anymore, but had his absence made hearts grow fonder, or out of sight, out of mind? How would the heart between Sergei and me beat months from now? Admittedly, lust and loneliness fueled our affair, even past the secrets. Time and distance held the truth, and for that, I must wait.

For the baby, I must wait no longer. I picked up the phone and made our first prenatal appointment.

Work. Going through the motions, but felt detached. I picked things up and put them down, but felt as if I hadn't touched them. I imagined that Javin noticed, but he knew Sergei had left this past weekend and gave me space. Driving home turned into a pale blur. The few times Laslan crept into my thoughts failed to elicit any visceral response. For so many nights over the past months, the glow of seeing Sergei punctuated the drive. Now I had my empty apartment which seemed to echo like Sergei's empty one, despite the carpeting in mine. I fancied that the apartment said, 'Time to go', but I didn't want to yet. Something had to push me.

Soon enough, another Sunday dinner and the second week without Sergei. We spoke twice more on the phone. He sounded tired. The time change, I told myself, and didn't push him for emotional details. Fonder or further? I'd have to wait and see.

One long day after my prenatal appointment, complete with vitamins from the pharmacy, then work, I returned home and found a letter in the mailbox. The Russian postage made my heart skip. I placed the letter on the kitchen counter while I washed my hands, and wondered again, fonder or further? I poured a glass of milk, then finally sat down. "Well, devotchka," I said to the angel, "let's see what's going on." The return address was that of his old apartment, as if he remained just down the road. But it was postmarked from Russia. The paper carried no scent of him, sadly, although he abstained from colognes anyway. Ripping paper sounded harsh in the empty apartment, and I read;

Dear Calliope,

I am gone when you receive this. I am unsure what to say, and I, professor of literature!

Our past year means so much to me. Clichè but true, and here comes another one; you, my dream come true. Sometimes I wish we did not meet, but my heart breaks to imagine we did not.

CeCe, you are young yet with a long life ahead as mine declines. Meet a good, healthy, young man, and let yourself have love and happiness. Do it for me. Think of me from time to time, but please, do not miss me.

I love you. You were, are, a most beautiful part of my life.

Always in my heart,

Sergei

The letter slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the floor. A second brush-off letter, like the first. Perfect bookends to our affair.

***

Early July slow-roasted the valley of Surry, insulated from cool coastal breezes. But somehow the heat felt good today, the sun toasting my eyelids, buttercups tickling my fingertips as I swayed in Mom's glider. At least my biggest months of pregnancy should occur in winter, not summer, a condition Mitzi cursed.

The patio door squeaked. "Calliope, you'll roast out here," Mom said. "I haven't got Dad to pull the furniture under the trees yet."

I opened my eyes and watched Mom shuffle out in slippers. She set a glass of ice water on the table. "Don't worry, Mom. I won't be out long. Thanks for the water, but why don't you go back in?" I waved her away. Thank God she didn't know about my 'condition'. I hadn't the guts to tell anyone yet, because of pursuant blah blah blah--Who's the father? Where is he? Does he know? I plucked three buttercups and pressed them within Eugene Onegin, the only time I opened the volume since I'd sat. Perhaps in a few weeks I'd send the dried blossoms with a letter on Gam's lilac paper to Sergei. I treasured written correspondence, for who wrote letters anymore? Although I understood that he wanted me to move on and find someone else, I had no such intention anytime soon, if ever.

I closed the book, laid my head back, then closed my eyes again. Insects buzzed, the glider swayed, the patio door creaked. I kept my eyes closed to discourage conversation and said, "Mom, really, I'm fine."

Click. Skunky smell.

My right eye opened. "Really, Jordan? For shit's sake, Mom and Dad are home. Like I've said before, you wanna get sent back down south to that crazy lady again?"

Jordan smirked, "Hey, it was better than going to juvie, and I'm an adult now. Anyway, I'll just tell them the grass caught fire."

"Hah, wouldn't be a lie, but you won't get anywhere getting high all the time."

"And you won't get anywhere letting Laslan terrorize you all the time."

I sat up, "What are you talking about?" A sip of ice water failed to soothe the squeeze in my stomach.

Jordan took another toke and spoke in that frog voice, "One of my bro's at the coffee shop...," ... cough... "on campus, he said something about how some chick went apeshit on some guy and beat the shit outta him, and I said, whoa, that's nuts, so he whipped out his phone and showed me the ass-end of the showdown, and there you are, straightening your skirt and stepping away like nothin' happened." Jordan coughed again, then he looked at me, "But worst of all, you called him a rapist?"

I nodded.

Jordan shook his head, "Shit, Cal, I always knew he was creepy, but did he really?"

Slouching in the glider, I replied, "I don't want to talk about it."

After his signature bowl-tap against the siding, Jordan strolled over and sat next to me. He dug his heel in the ground and stopped the glider. "Did you tell anyone?"

I barely shook my head and said, "No. Well, I told Sergei."

"Who's Sergei?"

I nearly rolled my eyes, but did not. "Last May, on campus. Remember the guy I was sitting with?"

"That old guy?" Jordan smirked, "Your fruitcake friend?"

"Yes, and he's not that old."

"You give him anything else? Oh, never mind, but shit." Jordan blew through tight lips, then, "Wait a minute, is he Professor Marchenkov?"

"Yeah, but how do you know that?"

Jordan shrugged, "He called me."

I turned to face him, "Sergei called you? How the hell did he get your number?"

"He said that I was an emergency contact on the student roster. I don't buy that, but I didn't question him, either. He simply said that you and he had a few conversations here and there and that he was worried. I thought it was weird that a professor would call a student's brother," Jordan coughed, "so something had to be brewing."

I leaned back again and gazed into the branches of the old apple tree. Jordan continued, "Considerate guy, I guess, and if you two wanted to be friends, fine, but he's old enough to be Dad."

"Duh, so? But he's not Dad. You're getting off-point."

"I know, but isn't it kind of gross, that old dude touching you and stuff?"

I bit my lip, then burst out, "I don't know, Jordan, but tell me, is it worse than being a complete sucker and fucking a guy because he seemed so great at first, and then he hurts you so bad but you can't tell anyone because half the people would say you're crazy to have broken up with him, and the other half would say 'I told you so'?"

Jordan stared at the dry ground. I continued, "Yeah, that's what I thought. Now, here's the grossest thing--turning your back on a kind, patient, thoughtful person just because they don't fit the model of the perfect match. But I didn't do that this time. I fell in love with Sergei, and that's that."

"Still."

"And I can't tell you how hard it was to get that old man to go out for coffee, let alone touch me, or kiss me, or take me to his bed. I practically had to carry him over the threshold myself."

Jordan chuckled, "So, it was you chased him, not the other way around?"

"Yes," I looked at Jordan, "and he turned out to be the friend I needed."

Jordan smiled slightly, "Cool, but why didn't you tell anyone else?"

"About Sergei?"

Jordan looked at me cockeyed, "Callie."

I felt a flush rise up my neck, so unwelcome on a hot day. I grabbed the sweaty glass of water, ice cubes melted, and took a gulp. "Why? Who'd of believed me? Mom thought he shit gold. Dad would have kicked me out, thinking I probably deserved it."

"You don't know that."

I continued, "Besides, Laslan and I dated nearly three years, so why would anyone believe he just up and raped me? I can hear it now--'Oh, that weird poor girl's just trying to blackmail his dad for money, you know, that big law firm and all.'"

Jordan frowned and said, "Cal, first off, people don't think that way anymore, and who cares anyway? Most of the assholes we grew up with either moved away or OD'ed. Second, rape's a felony, it's a big deal and you should have pressed charges."

Jordan must have been serious, for he didn't smoke anything, but he did get the glider swaying.

"Yeah, you're right on those counts," I said, gently rocking with him. "And none of our neighbors in their McMansions even know us. They just hate our property."

"Well, those BMW geeks are good customers," Jordan grinned.

"Aren't they driving Tesla's now?"

"Nah, besides, those guys grow their own or just go to the dispensaries." Jordan sighed, "So, what are you gonna do?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ever run across Laslan's father on campus?" Jordan asked.

"No, why would I?"

"Apparently, he's teaching a law course. Name's known around the school."

"Great. I hope he doesn't come after me for slander-by-association."

A burgeoning cloud touched the sun. "Come on, Cal, let's go in." I agreed and followed with my book and glass of water. I took another sip, and this time, it felt good.

Jordan set the table while I sat by the living room fan and finished the water. Dad lumbered in, sweaty from hours in his shop. He nodded, then disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the faucet squeak and the water hammer in the old pipes. Mom clattered about in the kitchen while chatting with Jordan.

His question returned to me; what was I going to do about Laslan? I still didn't know, but it had to be my way, somehow.

Mom called us to dinner and set bowls of food, family-style, on the table. We dug in, and Dad-the-Food-Critic said, "Margaret, these green beans hahd as rocks," in his finest New England accent.

"No, Paul, I boiled them plenty," Mom returned, spreading a napkin over her lap. Dad shook his head and forked a piece of meatloaf. I raised a brow at Jordan, who barely raised a brow back, then passed the ketchup to Dad. Dad slapped the bottom of the bottle as if it were glass.

"Dad, it's plastic. You gotta squeeze."

"Oh, yeah." He gave the bottle a mighty squeeze. The sickly spew of red spatter turned my stomach. I must have paled, for I caught Jordan staring at me. I barely waved my hand as if to say 'don't worry', then pushed hard beans and mushy meatloaf around my plate. The nausea pitted and I dealt with it by doing nothing.

After what seemed a forever-dinner, Mom excused herself to switch the laundry while we cleared the table. Jordan said, "Hey Dad, how's it going with Mom?" Jordan then peered around Dad's back at me.

"Oh, usual," Dad mumbled, rinsing greasy dishes under cold water. "Ups and downs."

"Mom forgetting stuff?" Jordan continued.

"Everybody forgets stuff, Jord. Get the glasses on the table." Dad said nothing more. I looked at Jordan, shrugged, then slid the wrapped leftovers into the fridge.

"Not taking any home?" Jordan asked.

"No."

"Oh well, Why don't you go chill on the couch," he said, laying a hand on my shoulder and leaning close. "You don't look so hot, and we still got things to talk about."

Without protest, I refilled my water glass from the gargling faucet and returned to the ancient fan, trying its best to cool the air and better than nothing. I sank into the sofa and closed my eyes, imagining the breeze from the fan playing with my hair as Sergei's gentle fingers used to.

Clatter, followed by Dad's cussing, if 'dang it' counts. I opened my eyes in time to catch Jordan giggling and sneaking out of the kitchen. He landed on the easy chair by the bay window, "Enough of that domestic shit." Leaning back and kicking up his feet, he peeked at the kitchen, then looked at me, "Okay, Cal, look, Mom's definitely getting kooky, and either Dad really doesn't see it, or refuses to."

"Grandpa had Alzheimer's, or something like it," I said.

"But he was old."

"Doesn't matter. Mom's old enough for early onset." A pang took over the nausea, which morphed into indigestion.

"So what are you noticing?" I asked. We remained silent at the scuff of Mom's slippers ascending the basement stairs, then she joined Dad in the kitchen. I continued, "Go ahead, Jordan. They can't hear us."

"No, but Dad will hear this...," Jordan reached behind his back and pulled out a Coors. He slowly pulled the tab, wincing as the beer hissed. He took a sip, peeked at the kitchen, then said, "Well, she stays up all night sometimes. I dunno, maybe just part of the night, 'cause I gotta sleep. I hear Dad snore, so I don't think he knows what's going on. She hung these fuckin' ugly dark curtains in the bedroom, so I don't think she knows the time of day anymore, especially since she quit working, what, four years ago?"

"More like six." I looked at my hands, "Yeah, I remember that day she punched out for the last time. She looked pretty unhappy."

"That's how getting fired usually makes you feel," Jordan said, taking another covert swig. Mom and Dad muttered in the kitchen, dragging a chair, then pop-hiss; Dad and his postprandial beer.

"Geez, thirty years together. What have they got left to talk about?" I wondered out loud.

"Who cares." Jordan kicked my foot, "So spill, what else is on your mind?"

Rubbing my palms hard on my thighs, I took a deep breath, "I loved him. Love him, I mean. Still love him."

Jordan gasped, "Fuck, not Laslan?"

"No, hell no. Sergei, I mean."

Jordan sat back and squinted at me, "Are you pregnant?"

I met his stare and nodded.

"Oh, sweet Jesus." He took a long swig, then offered me one, which I declined. "Does he know? Does anyone know or is this another secret?"

"Just you and I. Sergei doesn't know."

"So you let that guy knock you up and fly away?"

I half shrugged, "Jordan, he's married."

Jordan's mouth opened, then shut. After a moment, he asked, "So what happened? Pinhole in the rubber?"

"No. I planned it. And please don't tell him. I want to make sure this baby arrives first, safe and sound and I don't want him worried."

Mom threw a curt word at Dad. Her kitchen chair scraped the floor, then she scuffed to the living room, rubbing her temples, "That father of yours." Without elaborating, she sat on the couch, "Well, it's nice to see you two chatting. Are you both ready for school tomorrow?"

I rolled my eyes, "Mom, we...," but Jordan gave the slow down signal and finished, "Yes, Mom, we're all ready." He looked at me, I smiled and echoed, "Yes, we're ready."

Jordan coaxed Mom into retelling old stories of us growing up, and while she vividly recalled his first steps, I excused myself and gathered my pocketbook and keys. I said bye to Dad, and after a few steps out the door, Jordan caught up and insisted that he follow me to my apartment. I agreed. It felt odd having a bodyguard, sort of, but time to be prudent, not proud.

During the drive to my apartment, my stomach growled and suddenly I wished I had leftovers from the refrigerator.

Oh, duh.

I felt as if a slice of bologna hit me flat on the forehead. Sergei lied to Jordan. He didn't get Jordan's number some conjured student information. He took a picture of the contact list on my refrigerator.

***

Work slowed down because so many clients and employees grabbed a week or two of mellow August's summer fun before school. Happy kids, coolers, good times by the sea. With clipboard in hand, I receded to the humming pressroom and waved to Javin. He shouted over his press, "Hey, you takin' any time off this summer?"

"End of the month," I shouted back. Cans of ink stood at attention along the old wooden shelves that bore years of multicolored smudges from pressmen's fingers. For nearly six years, I'd inventoried ink and paper, and prayed for many more years. With big changes potentially on the way, one change I feared was losing this job. Some things must stay the same.

Over the next few weeks, Jordan and I concluded that Dad had his head in the sand regarding Mom's changes, but eventually he'd come up for air. Meanwhile, Jordan and I forged a grown-up relationship, and he even spent a Sunday afternoon with me at the beach. I realized how much I missed Jordan after years of childish tit-for-tat, and appreciated his friendship. I even shut up about his dope-dealing, for I needed cooperation anymore and not a high horse.

Another week passed. Despite ongoing concerns and my heart aching for Sergei, the mild September weather and my new partnership with Jordan gave me some peace. Sitting on my back deck with my cup of coffee, I waved to George, who ambled over with his toolbag.

"Well, well, Ms. Calliope, lookin' lovely as ever," he beamed. "Say, I meant to ask you, whatever happened to that fella I seen you with here last winter?" He wrestled a hammer from his bag and tapped a loose nail back into the deck, "First time I ever seen you bring a friend over."

I felt a flush and hoped George wouldn't notice, "My Russian professor. We had a nice friendship, and I took him out a few times, you know, change of scenery. He didn't have a car." I brought the coffee cup to my lips with both hands.

"Seems like a nice man. Cares about you." George searched out and hammered another misbehaving nail.

"Cares?"

George stood up straight, "Yeah, guy named Professor Marchinkuff or something like that called me a few days ago. Asked me not to say anything 'cause you'd be mad. Anyway, I don't remember everything because," he grinned and pinched his thumb and forefingers before his lips, "but he mentioned some creep bothering you."

My hand gripped the teacup. I ignored the sizzling eggs on the stove. "Just an ex who's mad at me, that's all."

George banged in another nail, then, "Calliope, is there something I oughta know about this guy? Is he coming after you?"

"No. Not really." I needed to get the eggs off the stove. "I don't know."

"He know where you live?" George tossed the hammer into the toolbag, then planted his fists on his hips.

"Uh, here?" My gaze flickered to the ground and back. That note. "I'm not sure. My parents' house, yes."

George looked to the sky, then shook his head, "This is a tough situation. What's his name, anyway?"

"Laslan Caulder." I set down the cup as quietly as I could.

"Caulder... Caulder." George squinted, "Any relation to J. J. Caulder, that fathead with the TV ads?"

"Yep, that's his father."

George blew a long breath, "Yeah, that bastard. I know him, J. J. that is. Stuck-up SOB." He brushed off his knees, picked up his bag and said, "Cal, you have any problems, let me know. And tell your brother, too."

"Jordan?"

"How many brothers you got?"

I rolled my eyes, "The one and only."

"Aw, he ain't all bad, " George turned and waved as he descended the little hill.

I stood with my teacup to go rescue the eggs when George spoke again, "Hell, he paid off your parent's mortgage, right?"

"He what?"

"Yep, that's what he tells me."

The kitchen door creaked as I closed it behind me. Paid off the mortgage? Now it made sense why Jordan lived at home, worked a legit job and still sold on the side. My parents always sucked with money and had mortgaged the house until forever. Apparently not anymore.

I shut off the stove, removed the pan, then closed the curtains in the living room. Falling like a sack of potatoes onto the couch, I couldn't believe what a heel I'd been. All those times I bad-mouthed Jordan. He wasn't a leech: to the contrary; he had done more for Mom and Dad than I ever did.

Watching dust motes play in the filtered light, I wondered why I always seemed out of the loop. Arrogance. I wanted detachment, but now didn't. I needed my family.

The phone rang and I let it. Silence, then ringing again. I dragged myself off the couch, imagining Mom on the phone, worried about some trite bit. But, not Mom.

"Hallo, CeCe, I wake you?"

"Of course not. It's nine in the morning here. I was just burning breakfast." I dumped the leathery eggs into the trash, "You've been busy."

"Yes, new curriculum, adjusting...,"

"I mean on the phone. Calling Jordan. Calling George. Why don't you call my mother, too, and tell her I need my nose wiped?" I turned the faucet with a jerk, then rinsed the frying pan.

"I don't have her number," Sergei replied, rather curtly.

"Right."

"Calliope, I worry about you," his voice rose a pitch. "You have a problem and do nothing."

"Well, if you're so friggin' worried, why didn't you stay, or take me with you? Fuck your wife. Sounds like you don't anyway." I turned off the faucet, then wiped my brow, the summer heat getting to me.

Silence, then he said, "You cannot just show up, so lock your lips and listen to me."

I heard what sounded like cars in his background. Perhaps he had few private places in which to make calls. "Okay, I guess I need to get over myself. I'll shut up."

"Good. Listen, you talk to no one, you tell no one, don't ask for help, so I ask on your behalf. All I tell is that I am your professor, a young man bothered you at our coffee shop, and it concerns me, that is all."

"Eto vseu," I smiled.

"Eto vseu."

The sound of his exerted breath concerned me, and I wished I were there. "Send me a pic."

"Pardon?"

"Wherever you are, right now, send me a pic."

"Yes, ma'am, but why change of subject?" he asked.

"I'm tired of talking about me and stressing you out."

"Ah, I see. Okay, give me one moment." And a moment later, my phone pinged, and in my texts, a picture of concrete sidewalks and cars blurring by.

"Wow, guess I'm not missing much." I dropped onto a kitchen chair, "Except you."

"No, not much here. Winter Palace, though. And stroll along Neva. In the country, wildflowers taller than you. And you should see...," He took a sharp breath, "And maybe someday...," He paused, then said, "I miss you, too."

My eyes stung. "No further. Not now." I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, "I gotta go." The angel gazed dolefully.

"I still love you, CeCe."

"I wish you didn't."

"Too bad."

Chapter 31

The heat wave broke. My apartment begged for fresh air, so I opened the windows while I showered, then readied for work. With an hour left, I sat with my laptop and continued researching how to have and raise a darn baby. Sure, Mitzi knew plenty, but I didn't want to grill her and give away my condition. Yet.

A cool, soothing breeze animated the curtains. I resisted calling in sick to enjoy all day at home instead, but would have felt restless and lonely by afternoon anyway. Plus, I shouldn't waste sick days. Requesting maternity leave felt stressful enough, then my thoughts led to daycare, and whether Mom and Dad could help, then my head spun and anxiety rose. I shut the laptop and reminded myself that I chose this and I'd figure things out step-by-baby-step. I sat back and watched the curtains go slack as the playful breeze receded. The apartment felt stuffy again, but time for work. I'd unmuddle my thoughts during the quiet evening hours. I closed the windows and left.

Afternoon at work passed smoothly, if not surreal. Evening approached, phones went silent, people left. I cleared a spot on my desk for dinner on one side, a sheet of paper on the other. Sandwich in one hand, pen in the other, I recreated bubble maps of everything to accomplish, acquire, and consider; baby seats and clothes and safety latches, health insurance change, telling Mom and Dad, and among other things, finally moving back home. Whatever flowed through my head landed on paper, turning into circles, arrows, and numbers. Forty minutes later, the jumble of circles and lines turned into a neat, prioritized list.

Over the course of the evening, I met with a few clients to look over proofs, chatted with Javin and the other evening pressman, then charted a few improvements for the shop. Hey, anything to keep me relevant. At eight, Javin walked me to my car and said goodnight along with a few laughs.

I looked forward to relaxing in my quiet apartment, which seemed promising, as George's house was dark. The triangle of light from the bulb over my back door attracted fluttering moths, like little bumper cars. Once inside, I'd shut off that light and give the bugs a break. George would likely rouse them whenever he came home. Usually I slept through his arrival, unless he took his bike to work and returned with the whoops of a wild woman riding on the back, followed by laughing and feet stomping up his porch stairs, jingling keys, then he and his aperitif receding into his house. It always made me smile in my dark room, the sound of people having fun.

But tonight the only sounds I heard were the rustling contents of my lunch bag and the squeaking of that one floorboard by the table. George always vowed to fix it, but I kind of liked it. It kept me company.

I brushed my teeth, changed into pajamas, and plugged in my phone at the kitchen counter, the phone's home until morning. I never brought it to bed; I wanted it charged, and preferred to literally get out of bed for the morning alarm. The separation now had another purpose; it prevented me from calling Sergei when I lay alone, missing him.

A sharp inhale caught me by surprise as I lay the phone on the counter. No. I wanted to paint the remaining evening in calm tones, like much of today had been. From the kitchen cabinet, I fished out the small, pricey lilac candle I'd purchased after Sergei left. A bittersweet reminder, perhaps, yet still something nice for myself.

I lit the candle and placed it on my bedside table. I turned the sheet back, then paused. Returning to the kitchen, I fetched the small fire extinguisher from beneath the sink. Can't be too careful, in case I fell asleep before the candle burned out. I shut my bedroom door, placed the extinguisher on the floor between the bed and the table, then lights out. My head sunk into the pillow as I watched the gentle flicker play with shadows on the wall, the sweet scent reminding me of that May afternoon with Sergei in my bedroom. My eyelids flickered, and soon I fell asleep.

... gray sky... dressed in old sweats... plunging knee-deep in mud along a black river... something claws my leg... I look down... girl with dead gray eyes, red shirt, climbing...

A scream stuck in my throat as my leg jerked and I woke up. Sweat covered my chest. The short candle wick, deep in liquid wax, barely lit the room. I took a few deep breaths. Just a nightmare. I shook my pillow, lay down again and started drifting off.

Until the creak.

I opened my eyes. The floorboard. I held my breath and looked at the space along the bottom of the door. Two dark areas interrupted the thin strip of blue glow from the kitchen nightlight.

Ice-cold, feet to forehead, like an April plunge. The bedroom door had no lock. My phone lay on the kitchen counter. I hadn't heard Geroge come home. I hadn't time to run, unlock the bedroom window, and squeeze out.

The doorknob turned.

No one would hear my scream. God help me out of this nightmare!

Nightmare. The red shirt... red extinguisher. My hand glided down the side of the bed, my finger hooked the handle of the extinguisher and pulled it up. Withdraw the pin, and aim. A surprise blast might give me time to hit the intruder over the head and run.

The doorknob turned more. I started to squeeze the trigger. Open-mouthed, I took a deep, silent breath.

... bzz... bzzz

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

The doorknob stopped. Silence, then the knob turned again.

... bzz... bzzz

This time, my phone did not stop buzzing. The dark areas beneath the door receded. I remained trigger-ready, the icy blood in my veins keeping panic at bay. After I don't know how long, I unfroze, and with the extinguisher still in hand, tiptoed to the dresser and shoved it in front of the door, which opened into the bedroom and not into the kitchen. Fortunately, no Big Lebowski moment. Unfortunately, not a time for humor.

Icy blood ebbed, and a wave of heat took its place. Walking backwards while still clutching the red weapon, I made it back to bed. Nothing to do but wait until morning.

Blinking, my eyes felt as if someone had thrown sand in them. I looked at the bedroom window and the sickly pale morning light. My arm clutched the extinguisher, my shoulder sore from lurching against the dresser. Birds chirped and the sunlight eventually turned a pale, cheerful yellow. Had someone really broken in, or had I reacted to an incredibly vivid dream?

I listened a while longer, then, with the extinguisher ever close, pushed the dresser bit by bit from the door. Keeping the extinguisher nozzle close before me, I cracked open the door, listened, then peeked.

Kitchen--quiet. Bathroom--empty. Living room--no one.

My arm fainted and dropped the extinguisher with a thunk on the counter. My pocketbook hung on the chair with its contents intact. My phone remained where I'd placed it. I shook my head. Must have had a dream within a dream. My phone alarm jingled and when I turned it over to shut it off, there it was; two phone calls, 2:03 am and 2:04 am. Unknown caller.

It wasn't a dream.

Goosebumps ran up my arms. Pack a bag for Mom's and go straight home after work. As I packed and tried to get ready for work at the same time, leaving a wake of half-finished tasks, I told myself to calm down. I still had no proof that anyone actually came in. I checked the doors and they were locked and I closed the windows yesterday before work, so... but did I lock each one? A fly buzzed past me. I looked behind me towards the far window in the living room. The curtains barely moved in a breeze.

My limbs ached as I took one slow step after another to investigate. Not only was the window and the screen open, but when I leaned close, I saw two small tears above the screen latches. Then something tickled my forehead. I jerked back.

Caught on the chipped paint in the casement, a long, curly, waving brown hair.

***

Work didn't start for a few hours, so I camped out at Dunkin. Hot sun through the window soaked through my flesh and into my bones. Sipping scalding coffee and wearing cheap sunglasses, I watched cars go by and felt so relieved to sit somewhere bright, public, and nondescript.

As cars whooshed by, wisps of disjointed conversations drifted in and out... geez, I knew he was an asshole... but you do nothing, CeCe!... is he kind? Like I needed more to think about, considering the nerve-racking night, and the nerve-racking task ahead. I ordered two sandwiches for later and left for work.

Mr. Garabedian's mouth hung open when I brought up the possibility of maternity leave. "You don't even have a boyfriend!" he cried. I had to laugh, then explained my situation with as few details as possible, since I didn't know if Russians and Armenians got along. Not that it was really any of his business, and Mrs. Garabedian probably wouldn't care. She simply hugged me and exclaimed, "We're going to have a baby!" She then handed me a stack of accounts receivables.

Priority Bubble #1 crossed off. A relief, but the triumphant feeling of telling Mr. Garabedian bailed as the memory of last night rose. I stood and cranked the blinds shut against the creeping afternoon sun. Hungry now, I unwrapped a room-temperature egg and cheese croissant, although the butter scent bothered me. I stared at the sandwich, wanting to eat it, but also not. I had to tell Sergei. But not. He should know, but what could he do? I shook my head. How many things was I going to hide from him? Was I hidden from his wife?

The walls of the office seemed to close in. Time to join the living. I grabbed the sandwiches and headed to the break room. Javin poured a coffee, "Hey, there!" His eyes twinkled, "There's a rumor going 'round."

I tossed the extra sandwich into the fridge, then sat and smiled, "Not a rumor."

"Well, congratulations!" He gave me a hug, then with hands on my shoulders, he looked at me, "You ready for this?" I unwrapped the soggy paper, "No, but it's something I wanted. I'll make it work."

"Dad went home, right?"

My face felt like it dropped, "Yeah. He had to."

Javin nodded, "That's tough, but you'll be all right. You got more friends than you know."

Yep. And more enemies than he knew.

Crunchy gravel beneath my tires and lights glaring from wide-open curtains. Anyone outside could see into the living room. Jordan's car blocked Mom's, so I blocked Dad's truck. I stepped out of my car, looked around, grabbed my bags, then locked my car. I knocked on the door.

"It's open!" Jordan yelled from inside.

Just what I thought. "Well, it shouldn't be," I yelled back as I walked in. "You gotta lock the damn doors and shut the curtains at night." I dropped my bag on the couch next to Jordan, then jerked the curtains shut. I turned and looked at my brother, who cocked his head and said, "Who the fuck would wanna break in? Nothing but junk and crazy people here."

Sitting on the couch and squishing my bag, I replied, "Who would wanna break in? Even crazier people."

His mouth opened as if to speak, then his eyes grew wide, "Calliope, why are you here?"

I heard Mom knocking about in her room and put my finger to my lips, then asked, "Where's Dad?"

"Where do you think?"

"Good. Jordan, I need help."

He paled, but nodded. I continued, "This is between you and me."

"I know."

"No, not that. I'll tell them soon anyway. Now, listen, don't freak out, but...," My phone rang. Jordan rolled his eyes, "Shit, just let it go to voicemail."

I looked at my phone, "No, it's Sergei. I asked him to call, but listen in. I gotta tell him the same thing I was going to tell you." I pressed 'accept' as Jordan said, "You're more confusing than an indie movie."

"Have you ever seen one? Oops, hi, Sergei. You didn't have to call this early."

"I had to use the bathroom and saw your text. What's going on?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"Well," I watched Jordan's face. He raised his brow, so I continued, "Something weird happened. Jordan's here, so he's listening, too."

"Good," Sergei exhaled.

"Someone broke into my apartment last night."

Jordan's jaw dropped. Sergei remained silent, then, "Repeat, please?"

"Around two am, I think someone was in my apartment."

Sergei muttered in Russian, then asked, "What happened, exactly?" Jordan's hands turned to fists. After I told the story, Sergei asked, "Did you call anyone?"

"No."

Sergei sighed several times, then said, "CeCe, please tell me you are at your parents' house."

"Yes."

"Do they know?"

"About... oh, last night. No, not yet. Maybe never. Please don't call them, either. They don't know about you, especially since," I shut up just in time. Dad stepped in from his shop. I waved briefly to him.

Sergei asked, "Since what? Put Jordan on."

I hesitated, then passed the phone.

"Privyet, kak dela?" Jordan said. Sergei replied in Russian, then switched to English. While they spoke, I drifted. It seemed Laslan never reported me, but apparently didn't forget, either. I never wanted to drag my family into my mess, but maybe I made things worse by keeping them out. There had to be a way to put a stop to this unprovable stalking.

Jordan said, "Dos vedanya," and I snapped to attention. He handed the phone to me. Sergei started, "CeCe, I make calls."

"More calls?"

"Listen, I call Jimmy, you remember? My nephew. I ask him to visit you, and when he comes, you talk to him, understand?"

"I guess, but...,"

"Good. You will tell George?"

"I don't know...,"

"Don't know? Why not? You do nothing, and I am here and you are there and I can do little as it is." I heard him take a deep breath, then, "I apologize to yell, but,"

I think fatigue and anger chipped away at him, so I said, "Listen, I have good people here on my side. We'll figure something out." Mom's bedroom door clicked, followed by the sound of her slippers. Sergei and I said goodnight. I looked at Jordan, then at Mom as she approached with a smile. She lay a soft, warm hand on my head, "Surprised to see you tonight. Is everything all right?"

I leaned my head back to look at Mom and smiled, "Yeah, I'm good. I'm moving back home, and you're going to be a grandmother."

***

Mom and Dad sat on the couch. I sat alone in the hot seat, the big easy chair, while Jordan stood with arms crossed, leaning against the wall. I started, "I'm due mid-February and moving home asap. I need to save money for the baby." I looked at Jordan, barely shaking his head. "It, uh, just seems like a good idea."

Mom and Dad looked at each other and sighed in unison. Eyes wet, Mom asked, "Well, Calliope, okay, but where's this baby's father?"

Jordan snorted, "Immaculate conception."

"Shut your mouth," Dad chimed in.

"Right, Pop."

Dad continued, his face reddening like a boiled lobster, "Yeah, where's the fatha'? Who is the fatha'?"

"In Russia." I said.

"Rush... Russia?" Mom squeaked, clutching a tissue.

"Yes. He was teaching in the States for a few years, and his contract and his visa were up in June." I hoped they wouldn't remember my Russian lit class. Doubtful. I picked at a thread in the chair, then looked at my father, "He had to go."

Nonetheless, Dad's fists turned into meaty balls, "Sonafabitch, just took off."

"Paul!"

"Mom, it's okay, and Dad, the guy doesn't know. I didn't want him to worry and besides, I planned this." I bit my lip and waited for the fallout.

Dad took Mom's hand and watched her as she bit her other thumbnail. She shook her head, then in a steady voice, she said, "A crib. You'll need a crib. I think the old one is still in the crawlspace, but it's probably not up to code. If you need a new one, we'll get it. And a stroller, and car seats, and...,"

"Margaret," Dad patted her hand, "It's okay. Yes, we're gonna have a grandchild, but not right now."

Mom smiled, "Yes, Paul, a granddaughter. I know it."

A few days later, I flagged down George in the backyard.

"Hey, Cal, what's up?" He strolled up to my porch.

I grabbed the railing, let go, grabbed it again. "Uh, George, I'm moving out."

He cocked his head, "Oh, okay. Anything wrong?"

"No. Well yeah. I'm pregnant, so I'm moving back in with my family to save some money and maybe help and all, and of course, you keep the security deposit because I'm breaking the lease."

George hung his head, shook it, then laughed, "Calliope, that's great news! A baby's always a blessing." He thumped up the stairs and crushed me in a bear hug. "And don't worry 'bout that deposit. You've been a good tenant and you'll need the money more than I do." He let go, then said, "But promise me one thing?"

"Sure."

"Bring that baby girl over for a visit sometime."

A shiver ran up my arms, "What makes you say a girl?"

George shrugged, "Fifty-fifty chance, but with a mamma as pretty as you, I hope it's a girl." He turned to leave, then turned again and looked at me, "Uh, that older fella, the one I saw with you?"

I smiled and nodded.

"Huh. Wow. He know?"

"No, and please don't tell him." I told George the same thing I had told Jordan.

"Okay, makes sense. Well, you take your time moving out. I like to advertise the place off-season anyway."

"It'll be this month," I spat out, nerves getting a hold of me again.

George squinted, "Okay, that's fast. Is there something else going on?"

I looked at the clear blue sky for a moment. "Yes, there's more. I think someone got into the apartment a few nights ago."

George took a step forward, "Like broke in?"

I sighed, then waved him inside. Pointing and walking to the corner window, I showed George the tears in the screen and recounted the event.

George gowled, much like Sergei did. "Damn, and I wondered about cutting back those shrubs."

"No, I think I forgot to lock this window. I had a lot on my mind that morning and got careless. Coincidence did the rest."

"Think it's that kid botherin' you?" George asked, still staring at the window.

"Probably. But nothing happened, and I have no proof it was definitely him, except for a hair. Even then, it's still a weak case. I've been staying at my mother's at night since then." I moved away from the window and headed to the kitchen.

"Huh, I noticed your car gone. Thought you had another friend," George grinned, but not long. "Guess not, though. I'll fix that screen and trim those bushes today."

"I'm sorry about his trouble, George."

"Sorry? Nope, not havin' it." He clapped a hand on my shoulder, "That SOB don't know when to quit. Hm, maybe I'll call the police and see if I can file any kind of report. Anyway, do what you gotta do, and if you need help, ask."

I smiled, "Thank you, I will." Sergei would like that, and I wondered who Sergei would rope in next.

Chapter 32

"He arrives next Saturday, your apartment. Talk to him, CeCe. Do not clam up," Sergei said.

One hand holding the phone, the other packing books, I asked, "You're really making this guy drive all the way up here from Manhattan? You know, I'm not in the mood to entertain strangers."

"Jimmy is not stranger, he is family, so lean on him. Please do it for me. I think you like him."

I suppressed a huff and closed the box. "Okay, he can stay here, since I can stay at Mom's."

"Good, good." Sergei went silent, then, "CeCe, how are you, really?"

I pushed the box against the empty shelf, "Okay, I guess. George had a police officer come over anyway and I talked to him for a few minutes. It was cool. Work is going well, and my parents don't mind me moving back. George has been okay with me moving out, too."

"No. You. How are you?"

Fidgeting with a wrinkle in my T-shirt, I lowered my voice, "I miss you every day. I keep busy and all, but I miss you, especially at night. I miss our conversations. I miss feeling you warm against me. I wish I could tell you all of this face-to-face over a cup of tea going cold."

Sergei coughed, and in a rough voice said, "I miss you, too, but Calliope, continue to take care. I would rather miss you than mourn you."

***

Saturday afternoon. I lay on the couch in the still-my-apartment. Drowsiness took over despite anticipating Jimmy's arrival. Closing my eyes, I created a boutique of looks that might suit Jimmy since I'd never even seen a pic. Flat, broken nose with a dark beard and leather jacket? Short, stocky and gruff with a buzz cut? Maybe blond with ruddy cheeks and 80's-tinted clothes? Spiralling sleep took over; visions of Jimmy dispersed.

I jerked out of my nap to sharp rapping at the front door. Jimmy! I peeled myself off the couch and stood, then smoothed my blouse over my anxious stomach, which wasn't showing yet. Knocking again. On the side of caution, I leaned against the door, "Who is it?"

"Jimmy, Sergei's nephew."

I unlocked the door, opened, and stared; Jimmy could have been Sergei if my love were tall, young--and bald. "Uh, come in," I mumbled.

The high cheekboned semi-stranger removed his mirrored sunglasses, revealing icy blues, like Sergei's, and strolled by me as I held the door open with my body flattened against the wall. I caught a scent of spice and grass as he passed, and before I shut the door, I peeked at his car; a sleek, shiny something or other with tinted windows and totally out of place here.

I followed him down the short hallway and watched him drop his bag on the couch. He turned and stretched, the blue Oxford taut across his broad chest. He must have changed his shirt just before arrival, for it had neither wrinkles nor sweat stains. And his patterned socks subtly matched his shirt. I never saw anyone dress like that except in magazines.

"Whew," he said, swinging his arms, "hell of a drive." He and his swinging arms took a turn around the living room, then headed towards the kitchen.

"Yeah, I guess it's...,"

"Ever been to Manhattan?" His interruption echoed from the kitchen.

"No, but...,"

"Maybe you go someday. Maybe sooner than you think." Peek at the bathroom, peek at the bedroom, then he headed towards me. I felt a little sick, but said, "Uh, that would be cool. Maybe."

He stopped close to me, those blue eyes boring into mine, "So, you are Calliope Winter Winthrop?"

I barely nodded, "Present."

Jimmy cocked his head and smiled, "He talks so much about you. To me, anyway."

For a moment my head spun, and my one hand gripped the other, "Huh. I kind of wondered if out of sight, out of mind."

Jimmy still stood close, looking down at me and said, "You don't think much of yourself."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I would." He grinned and added, "But I see why you cause so much trouble."

"Well, I...,"

He turned away and wandered into the living room, "And your apartment, twice as big as mine."

My lips tightened, afraid to speak lest he cut me off again. He stopped at the corner window, "Here?" he asked, brow raised.

"Yep, that window. You can't tell now because George fixed the screen already. He's a great landlord."

Jimmy shoved his hands in his pockets, "Then how is it your ex broke in?"

A flush rose up my neck, "That was my fault. I think I forgot to lock the window." I wanted to punch Jimmy. "So, why is it you're really here?"

He regarded the window, turned on his heel, then sat on the couch. "We've gotten off on the wrong foot, haven't we?"

I shrugged.

"Five hour drive," he leaned back and crossed his legs.

"Oh, can I offer you...," I returned to my sparse kitchen, where Sergei's teacups remained in the cabinet. No tea for this jerk. "... water?"

"Da, voda, pashowsta," he called from the living room.

My knees nearly buckled. Did he have to answer in Russian? My hand shook as I filled two glasses with water and ice.

Jimmy watched me as I handed him the glass, making me even more nervous as I tried hard not to spill a drop on his crisp khakis.

"Spaseeba," he said.

"Stop that," I replied, taking a seat on the floor opposite him.

"Ah, relax, Calliope. I don't bite," he sipped, then said, "unless you want me to."

I held the cool glass between my palms, and looked at him funny, "You still haven't told me exactly why you're here. Are you my knight in shining armor? Got a jousting stick hidden in the trunk of the car? Or are you here to sell me insurance or something?"

Jimmy laughed and set the glass down. His front teeth looked slightly pushed back, giving him a vampirish look. "Insurance?"

"Yeah, you got that clean crisp look like a salesman of some sort."

He tilted his head, "Mm, no, not insurance. Simply this--Sergei asked me to check on you, and after some discussion, well, we'll discuss it over dinner."

Ah, did I detect a slight roll in the Rs and a heaviness in the Ds? "Dinner," I repeated softly, imitating the accent Sergei had.

"Yes, dinner. I am hungry. Always hungry. Name any place. We go. I pay."

I stared up at the empty bookcase, "Well, there's," I shook my head. "No."

"Memories?" Jimmy asked.

"Yes." I looked at him. He smiled and said, "Is okay. I know what it's like to miss someone a world away." He interlaced his fingers and rested them on his flat stomach.

"You got a love in Russia, too?"

"New Jersey."

I hung my head, yet still looking at him, "New Jersey? That's right next to New York."

He shrugged, "Yes, but married with children."

"You?"

"Her."

"Oh." I leaned back resting on my arms. "How did you meet?"

"In a bar."

"In a bar. Whatcha do, slip onto her husband's stool when he went to the bathroom?"

"No," Jimmy unlaced his hands and uncrossed his legs. "I was out wandering one night and decided to get a drink at the Alton. She was at the bar, by herself, you know, Mom's weekend out. We struck up a conversation, and it went from there.

Huh. I thought about my older cousin I barely knew in southern New Jersey. Long, long shot, though. "Tough one, I guess. Does anyone have a normal relationship?"

Jimmy chuckled, "Apparently not, so tell me, how does a beautiful young woman end up with a stale pretzel like the professor?"

I barely suppressed a laugh at Jimmy's not-inaccurate description, "Well, as you probably know, we met in his Russian literature class. I have to admit, his unattractive qualities made him oddly attractive, and after several failed gestures, I finally got a date, so to speak." I shut up and basked in a silent moment, returning to that lecture hall, remembering the slap of his briefcase. Jimmy remained quiet. I continued, "Then, I don't know, he grew on me, but he didn't want to get involved." I looked at Jimmy, who shook his head, then said, "Continue."

I pulled my knees to my chest, and wrapped my arms around my legs, "Then, Laslan called, out of the blue. Scared the shit outta me and I didn't know where else to go that Laslan didn't know about."

"Any harbor in a storm?"

I smiled, "Yeah, well, more than that, but it went from there."

Jimmy watched me a moment longer, then sprung from the couch, "I'm starving! Let's eat." He held out his hand and helped me up. "All right, Calliope, where to?"

I smoothed my blouse, "Well, there's this little Italian place I always liked. Of course Laslan hated it because...,"

"Perfect, let's go." Jimmy gathered his keys, wallet, and sunglasses while I got my pocketbook. Turning back to the living room, a question struck me. "Jimmy, can I ask you a question? It might seem a little personal."

"Shoot."

"Well, you dress nice, you drive a nice car, but you said your apartment is half as big as mine. So, what's the deal? Struggling businessman?"

"Struggling? No. Businessman? You could say that."

"Come on, what then? I told you how I fell for someone like the stale pretzel. At least tell me what you do for a living," I pursued him to the front door.

He stopped and turned so abruptly that I nearly ran into him. He grinned, lifted his sunglasses, and leaned towards me, "I'm an escort."

Well, that shut me up until we got to the car. Jimmy shut the passenger door for me, then he got in. He turned the ignition, then looked at me, "Any more questions?"

"Uh...," I had about a million as I ran my finger along the leather dash, but how do you ask?

"Borrowed the car from a friend, by the way," he said.

"Oh," I glanced at him, then at the odometer. "Only forty-three thousand miles? Holy shit, that's luxury. I thought cars came out of the factory with eighty thousand already. At least mine do."

"Hey, at least you have a car," Jimmy said, pulling onto the road.

"You don't need one in the city," I replied.

"No, but it's nice to have your own wheels. Just hop in and go."

"Yeah, I guess," I turned my head to look behind. "If the car runs."

Jimmy's nice car didn't look as out of place in this particular part town as it would have twenty years ago. He opened the car door for me, and while walking to the tawny stucco building, I leaned towards Jimmy and said, "Be prepared. This restaurant is, shall we say, enthusiastically decorated."

Jimmy held open the door for me again, and followed me into the foyer resplendent with silk flowers and vines, climbing plaster pillars and trailing across the ceiling. He looked, brow raised, then whispered in my ear, "It's charming."

The breath I'd held escaped, "Good, I'm glad you like it. Or at least you seem to like it. I don't know what you're used to. I mean, do you eat breakfast at Tiffany's, or something like that?"

"Ha, no. Besides, it's my job to like whatever the lady favors."

"Two?" The hostess barked and made me jump.

Jimmy cooly turned his attention to her, "Please." Then he giggled and said to me, "She can count!" And she who could count seated us in a dark and cozy booth, soon lit up by a young and smiley waitress. The young lady barely looked at me while delivering her spiel to Jimmy, who passed me the wine list and asked, "To drink?"

"Oh, just... just water, please."

"Just water?" Jimmy asked.

"Yes," I shifted, then placed my hands over my stomach.

Jimmy ordered a red wine and the waitress left. "Not a drinker?" he asked.

"No, well, sometimes. I just don't feel like it tonight."

Jimmy leaned back, gazing at me as if gauging something. To break the awkwardness until the drinks arrived, I asked, "So, Jimmy, what do you think of our little podunk town?"

He smiled, "It has its charms." He took a deep breath, folded his hands on the table and said, "Remember how I wanted to discuss something over dinner? Well, I'm gonna jump ahead. Sergei wants you to move to New York for a while."

New York. I felt like I just dunked in the ocean. "New York?"

"New York."

"I can't. I have a job here. Family. Where would I live? I don't know anyone."

"You know me. I can help you meet new friends." He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at me again. "Calliope, it seems this guy won't leave you alone, and yet, you don't have ample proof to do anything about it. Even if you could get a restraining order, those don't always work, and then there's that incident of you attacking him in the café."

"Ready to order?" The waitress piped in, setting down the drinks. I hoped she didn't catch my scowl.

"A moment, please." Jimmy dismissed her with a wide smile, then continued. "My place is small, but I can make room. There's plenty of work and it would get you far out of town, but not so far that you couldn't get home in an emergency."

My mouth must have finally shut. He shrugged, "Hey, you might like it. With your looks and cool bearing, they'd love you there."

The waitress appeared again. This time with bread. We ordered and she flew away.

"So?" Jimmy asked.

I felt like a snail withdrawing into its shell. Connecting the beads of sweat on the water glass with my fingertip, I stuttered, "Like, like me there, huh? No, I just, ew. I don't think I could do that kind of work." I peeked at Jim from beneath my brow.

He looked quizzically at me, "What kind of work do you mean?"

"Selling sex," I mumbled.

He sat back, serious. Then he laughed, "No, I never meant that kind of work for you." He leaned towards me and wrapped his elegant fingers around my wrist, "And I don't sell sex."

"No?"

"No. I sell the chance to forget things for a while."

The warmth of his hand felt good on my wrist, stirring that desire to be touched. I looked into his eyes and said, "Or perhaps the chance to remember."

After dinner, we strolled a nearby park, comparing Hampton Beach with Coney Island, Franconia Notch with Manhattan's skyline. Thereafter, we returned to my apartment. "You can stay here," I said.

"You sure? I can get a hotel."

"No, you spent nearly a whole day getting here and bought me dinner. Least I could do is put you up and save you a hundred bucks with a few sheets on the couch."

"Spasseeba, yes," Jimmy said. "You staying, too? Sergei said you've been staying at your mother's."

Stay or go? The envoy with the arresting eyes and provocative vocation watched me. I replied, "Stay. I feel safe here with you."

He smiled, "Good, you should." After talking a little more, we said good night and turned into our separate spaces.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I called Jordan and told him about my situation, and that I'd be okay here tonight. Then, I went to the dresser, the contents of which I hadn't completely packed, and put on the white silk nightgown. Slipping under the sheet, I lay on my side and let my eyes search out forms on the bare, dim wall beyond. So quiet. Lonely. Cold. I threw back the sheet, floated through the dark living room, and stood by the couch until Jimmy opened his eyes. I held out my hand and said, "I don't want anything. Just hold me." He sat up, took my hand, and followed me into bed. With his arm around me, he whispered, "Just this?"

"Just this." Then I giggled, "Besides, you're too young for my taste."

Jimmy gave me a tender squeeze and whispered, "And you're too young for mine."

Chapter 33

Morning's blush cast a rosy glow on the walls, or maybe the warmth of Jimmy nestled against me affected my vision. I wiggled and turned to face him. His eyes fluttered open, "Good morning, dove."

"Morning dove, clever," I smiled. "Did you sleep well? Not much space in this bed."

"Yes, mostly, except when you snored like a freight train."

"I did not!"

Jimmy grinned and smoothed a hair from my face, "Don't worry about it. Besides," his smile faded, "I have to go back today."

My smile followed his. "I know. I wish you could stay longer. I'm actually starting to like you. As a friend that is." He smirked, gave me a peck on the cheek, then sat up, "Okay, shower time. You first, then me, then breakfast. Unless you want to shower together."

I laughed, "Sounds like a plan, most of it." I stretched, untangled the sheets from around me, and as I approached the bedroom door, Jimmy said, "Nice nightgown."

I dressed in jeans, a loose white blouse, and a favorite butterfly necklace, reminiscent of the dainty blue sulfurs in my mother's garden. Hungry, I wiped the already clean kitchen counter while Jimmy finished in the bathroom. He stepped out and exclaimed, "Well, fresh as...," he paused, seeming to look at my neck. "Pretty necklace."

"Thank you. Hey, I know a good breakfast joint. My treat."

He switched his gaze from the necklace to my eyes and said, "Uh, yeah, sounds good. Let me pack up first." He stepped past me, a not-so-happy look on his face, and went to the couch. He tucked his few items into his bag while I got my pocketbook. He had started stripping the couch when I turned around, "Leave that, Jimmy. I'll get it later."

"Hush, woman! You're not a housekeeper, and I don't mind." Jimmy snapped the sheet and folded it neatly and quickly. I smiled, reminded of Jordan's roll-it-around his arms folding method. Jimmy lay the neat sheets on the couch, planted his fists on his hips and declared, "Okay, I'm ready."

"Good, 'cause I'm hungry. I'll drive, too."

"Mm hm." He took a few steps then said, "No, I'll drive. Just relax and let the morning take you where it will." He smiled, though his eyes did not. For a hot moment, he even looked worried. I tried to brush it off. He had a long drive ahead after a short visit that didn't resolve anything. Perhaps my saying no to New York hung as a failure?

After a ten minute wait at Honey Spot, we were seated. Not bad for a Sunday morning, but what I hadn't kept in mind was the constant clack and clatter of dishes meshed with constant chatter. Jimmy and I barely heard each other, and although we sat but two feet apart, he felt miles away as the pang in my gut increased. In an hour or two, my only significant connection to Sergei would be gone.

Coffee and bagels on the rocks by the sea would have been better. "Jimmy," I yelled, "let's get our orders to go."

Thumbs up. A few minutes later, bag in hand, Jimmy said as we approached the car, "I don't think food has ever seen the inside of Ms. Sharon's car."

"Ms. Sharon?"

"The friend of mine, yeah," Jimmy unlocked the car and put the food on the floor behind him, placing each box side by side.

"Let's eat at the beach," I suggested.

Jimmy put the keys in the ignition, paused, then looked at me. "No. Not this time, Calliope. I'm not saying never, just maybe another time." He turned the key, then, hands at ten and two, he said, "Show me where Laslan lives."

The scent of scrambled eggs turned my stomach. I needed the bag to barf in, but I swallowed hard and whispered, "Laslan?"

"Yes. I don't know why, but I want to see where he lives. Just a drive by. There's a baseball hat and extra sunglasses in the glove box if you want. Just one drive-by, then we can eat at your place."

A long, unsteady breath escaped me, "Well, I don't really know where he lives right now. He gets kicked out of everywhere else, as far as I know, so he usually ends up back at his father's house." I took another breath. "Take a left at the lights."

The car rolled forward. Popping open the glove box, I removed the sunglasses and the baseball hat. "Yankees, huh?" I said, turning the hat over in my hands.

"Of course," Jimmy replied.

I looked at him as he watched the red light, silently. I lay the sunglasses in the hat on my lap, "Riding incognito in a shiny luxury car with tinted windows. If you're Russian, shouldn't you be better at this spy stuff?" I slipped on the glasses.

"Part Russian, and the spy stuff is Soviet. Anyway, would we be better off in your car?"

Good point. But if we had been in my car, I wouldn't have driven to Laslan's. The light turned green. I gulped and answered, "No." I put on the hat.

"Next move. Tell me." Jimmy said.

"I don't want to do this."

"Calliope, I have to hit the road by ten. Which way?"

I clasped my hands in my lap, "Right. Right at the second light."

As I pointed and uttered sparse directions, the stores turned into houses and the houses into trees. I kept shuffling my feet and fidgeting with my fingers as we drove closer.

"You need the bag in the back?" Jimmy glanced at me with a finely arched brow.

"Why?"

"In case you have to puke."

"Jimmy, I wish you weren't so perceptive."

"Too bad. It's part of my job."

All too soon the sabre-like roof of the house's overhang loomed above the manicured shrubbery on the hill. "There," I pointed and whispered, as if the house had ears. Jimmy turned left onto the rural road, cruising slowly by and remarking, "Wow, nice spread."

I turned my head the other way and gazed out the passenger window at the dark, almost black pine forest. In my mind, the heavy black front doors of Laslan's house opened into the vast, chilly foyer and everything beyond; shiny, clean, perfect. The gray, frowning face of Laslan's father beneath the blue recessed kitchen lighting, his wrist resting on the granite countertop. He did not shake my hand when Laslan introduced me.

"Red sports car in the driveway," Jimmy said.

I slipped down low in the seat, "Fuck, probably his car."

"Young guy with brown hair and grocery bags."

"Great. That probably means he's living at home again."

"Uh oh, he's looking," Jimmy giggled.

"What? Then step on it!" I curled into a fetal position, my back to the whole scene.

"Okay, okay, calmé," Jimmy accelerated slightly. "It's done. It's over. Fait accompli."

"We haven't accomplished anything but scare the shit out of me." I wished I had that barf bag in spite of saving face. We rode quietly for a few moments, then I noticed in the window's reflection Jimmy's glances. "Geez, he really did a number on you, didn't he?"

I looked at my own reflection and hated it. I hated him. "Jimmy, he raped me and I don't think I can do much about it at this point."

Tires crunched in sand and gravel as Jimmy stopped on the side of the road. He put the car in park and turned to me, "He did what?"

"You heard me," I mumbled at the window.

"Calliope, look at me." I did so. He continued, "Does Sergei know?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"A long time ago," I shook my head. I told Jimmy the basics including why I didn't report it. For the finishing touch, I said, "At this point, I just want to forget it."

"Right, and how's that working out for you?"

"There's more." I replied, "We'd always used condoms, but of course, not that time." Jimmy's face turned stony. I continued, clenching and unclenching my fingers, "I didn't want his baby, but I didn't want to abort it, either." I half-smiled, and looked Jimmy in the eye, "So, I did the next best thing. I cursed the baby, wishing it would die, and the next morning-poof! Dead and gone."

"Hey, miscarriage isn't uncommon. Sergei know about this, too?"

I shook my head and looked down at my hands, now spread on my thighs. "No one knows but me, and now you." The heat of my palms felt good, and oddly, I no longer felt sick.

Until I saw flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror. "Great. You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Jimmy looked, then blew a breath through tight lips.

"Calmé?" I asked.

He smirked, "Yeah, calmé." He rolled down the window while I fished the registration and insurance out of the glove box.

"Hello, officer, how are you?" Jimmy asked brightly.

"Can't park here," the officer said, unbrightly, looking past Jimmy and at me.

"Sorry, sir, just a kind of emergency," Jimmy said.

"Emergency?" The officer peered my way again.

Jimmy passed him the required information and said, "Well, no, just, I mean, I had to pull over to discuss something, you know, without the distraction of driving."

The officer asked for my ID also, which I gave him. He looked at me again, "You okay, miss?"

"Yes, I'm fine. We were just talking." Shut up before the officer gets the wrong idea.

"Hmph." He took the documents to the squad car and disappeared within.

My heart beat like the Kentucky Derby, "This is too weird." I kept my eyes on the rearview.

"Well, he's right. I probably shouldn't park here."

"I don't know. The coincidence is uncanny."

The officer returned the documents to Jimmy and bid him a safe day, then U-turned and drove away. Jimmy smirked, "I bet that was an illegal turn."

"Who cares, as long as he's gone." My hands shook as Jimmy slowly pulled onto the road and said, "Boy, I've had enough fun for one day. Point me the way home and let's eat."

I nodded and pointed to the stop sign about a quarter mile ahead. The mellow thrum of the car soothed me, like a lullaby, but the lullaby felt false. Put to sleep, not going to sleep.

Jimmy slowed the car as we approached the stop sign, "Which way?"

I stared ahead. In the rearview mirror, I saw a car coming up behind us. Our car stopped.

"Hey, which way?" Jimmy looked at me. The car behind us tapped the horn.

Dull not device by coldness and delay.

"Jimmy, turn around."

"Turn around?"

"Turn around," I repeated. The car behind us honked. Probably a Masshole. Jimmy rolled his eyes and said, "Okay, hang on. Illegal turn ahead." He spun the car around and headed back towards Laslan's house.

"Pull into his driveway," I said, taking off the hat and sunglasses.

Jimmy kept glancing at me until the car slowly turned right and up around the cul-de-sac. Laslan's faded red car, trunk open, sat parked by the gloomy front door. I felt as if a cold stone pressed against my forehead, but at least I didn't feel nauseous. "Get out and stand by the car, Jimmy. With your sunglasses on. And if you gotta say anything, say it in Russian. Doesn't matter if I understand or not."

Jimmy nodded and got out. As I got out, too, Laslan appeared at his doorway, took one step outside, then stopped when he saw me approaching. At first he looked stunned, like a deer in the headlights. His jaw dropped, then snapped shut as a glinty look of panic and derision appeared in his eyes.

I don't know if anything besides my feet moved at all; tall grasses bent in the breeze, clouds sailing across the sky. From the corner of my eye, Jimmy looked perfect, motionless in the mirrored sunglasses, arms crossed, leaning against the car.

Laslan stood stuck and pale like a granite statue, except the glint in his eyes as he said, "What the fuck do you want?"

I walked closer. A Vader-like shadow of Laslan's father appeared in the murky foyer.

Laslan jerked his head towards Jimmy, "And who the fuck is that?"

Laslan's father stopped short of the threshold. I took another step until there was but one between Laslan and me. At that moment, a chickadee flew by and beyond and into the black forest. I looked Laslan in the eyes and said, "I forgive you."

The glint in his eyes broke, as if ice melting to water. "Why? What for?" His father drew into the light and cocked his head.

"I forgive you. I forgive you for how you treated me. I forgive you for what you did to me." Every ounce of heaviness within me pooled at my feet and melted into the ground. "I forgive you for making me hate so hard that our child died, because I've always tried to be a good person, and I'll keep trying, and I'm moving on. You do what you gotta do."

Laslan's lower lip twitched. I took a few steps back, took a half turn to leave, then stopped. I returned within inches of Laslan's face and said very low, "But, I'm not perfect, and if you ever set foot in my home again, I'll shoot you."

***

I felt light and free as a bird on the drive home. Even Jimmy looked relieved. Sometimes. At home, he parked out front again, and inside, he set the table with the plastic cutlery and soggy cardboard clamshells. I brewed the last teabags and treated Jimmy to the dainty yellow teacups. He deserved at least that.

"My mother has the same cups," he remarked, studying the design.

I set two extra paper towels, "You sure she has a full set?"

"Whaddya' mean?"

I smiled over the rising steam of the cup, "Sergei left these to me. He never said where he got them and I never asked."

Jimmy narrowed his eyes, then picked up his fork and opened the box. He paused, looking at the food, then said, "Oh well," and stabbed.

We sat quietly for a few minutes while Jimmy ate and I poked at my food. He then asked, "So, how are you feeling?"

I smiled a little, "I think this is the last meal Laslan will ever spoil."

Jimmy laughed, "That's pretty funny, seeing as he works in catering."

"Catering? No, he always claimed he was gonna to be a bigger-time lawyer than his dad, so makes you say catering?"

Jimmy tapped the left side of his chest, "Emblem on his shirt. You didn't notice? It said 'Busy B's Catering'."

Tea burned my lip. I frowned, staring down at the table, "Busy B's Catering, Busy B's...," I set the teacup down so hard it spilled, "Son of a bitch!"

"Calliope?"

I looked up. Jimmy's forkful of eggs hung in the air, awaiting clarification.

"They catered the company Christmas party. I hired them."

Jimmy set down the fork and leaned back. "Busy season. You called and left your name and telephone number on the answering machine."

I barely nodded, then closed the clamshell. Jimmy looked at the closed shell, then said, "Well, you mind if I keep eating?"

"No, of course not." I slid my unfinished breakfast to him, "I'm just going to pack a few more things. Take your time." I rose from the table, as if in a cloud.

Jimmy finished eating, threw out the shells, and washed the cups. I closed the boxes on the kitchen counter, then leaned against it while he dried his hands.

"Well, I guess this is it," he said.

"Thank you for coming all the way up here. And for your offer. It's tempting, but I can't."

"Sure, it was worth it." He looked at the boxes, "I'll carry them out for you, and I suggest you leave here right after me. Go to your parents'."

"I will." I swung my pocketbook over my shoulder. Jimmy slung his bag over his, then stacked the two boxes and picked them up. I held the door for him, then locked it behind me. He placed the boxes in the trunk of the car, which I shut, then I turned to face him. Jimmy placed a gentle hand under my chin and said, "Call if anything happens, or if you change your mind."

"Can I still call you if nothing happens, or if I still don't change my mind?" I smiled.

"Of course."

"Jimmy?"

"Present."

"I miss him." I tried to keep smiling, but felt it cracking.

"I know." Jimmy gave me a kiss on the forehead, "That's from me." Then he kissed me slowly, softly on the lips, "And that's from Sergei." Then he released me. Tears streamed down my cheeks, which he did not brush away.

He walked halfway around the driveway when I called out, "Jimmy?"

He stopped and turned.

"Don't tell Sergei about the baby."

He cocked his head, "Which one?" Then he walked around the curve and out of sight.

Chapter 34

At home, I took my overnight bag from the back seat, likely for the last time. The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I approached the brick-colored back door, feeling both relief and resignation. Perhaps Mom napped while Dad hid in his shop. Each step through the hall and up the creaky stairs seemed to echo, and although I'd opened my bedroom door a thousand times before, it felt like the first time. I plopped the bag on my bed, then went across the hall to Jordan's door and knocked.

"Come in, it ain't locked. And don't tell me it should be."

I half-smiled, "No, I'm not going to tell you what to do about your own room."

He dropped the book he was reading onto his chest, "Nope, not like it's yours. What's up, Cal? Come back to roost?"

"Hah, pretty much. Do you think you could help me next weekend, if you're not working?"

"Sure, Saturday." He buried his nose back into the book, "But nothin' before ten."

"K. Thanks." I turned to leave and shut the door.

"Hey, Cal?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're home."

***

Saturday. Sabotta. Packing my remaining items and cleaning my apartment only took a couple of hours with Jordan's help. The furniture belonged to George, so it stayed. No heavy moving. We said our goodbyes to George, and with my security deposit, cash, in my hand, I turned to Jordan and raised a brow. He smiled and said, "Yep, Moe's and lobsters."

An hour later, we sat on a bench in Prescott Park with a view of the crazy Piscataqua current and the naval shipyard beyond. The Italian hoagie felt heavy in my hand.

Alternately peeling back the paper from the sandwich and sweeping wind-blown hair off my face, I finished chewing an oniony bite and said, "So, do you feel you gave up a lot, paying off the mortgage?"

"Oh, what, like a better car and a place of my own and traveling and concerts? Naw, it was worth it. Sometimes you gotta do shit for others. Did you give up a lot forgiving Shitbag?"

I stopped chewing and watched a tug guiding a freighter upriver, "No. I gained everything."

"Huh." Jordan ripped into a bag of chips, "What did el professor think of your angel act?" He looked at me. "You did tell him, right? What you told me? Or maybe that dude who spent the night at your place told him." Jordan hung his head and shook it, mumbling, "You're weirder than I am."

"Yes, I told Sergei. I think he was shocked."

"You're a shit, you know that?" Jordan said.

"Me? Why?"

"'Cause you got that second shock coming to that poor guy."

True. You have to check your morals. Your angels don't do it for you.

After strolling the flower beds in the adjacent park, we picked up boiled lobsters from a shack tucked between the crisp white capes of New Castle. We then followed the sun home, and surprised Mom and Dad with the dead red crustaceans, and laughed throughout dinner over cracking shells and splattered white guts and butter. Afterwards, we washed our hands with dish soap and lemon juice, and then a surprise for me; a new crib, which we all helped assemble in my bedroom, without too much cussing.

Late that night, after thanking everyone, I shut my door and collapsed on my bed. Gazing at the crib by the window in the dim light, I thought, what a wonderful place to raise a little boy. Or girl.

October. I started to show. Everyone at work seemed to back off in a polite tip-toe way, placing proofs and orders and issues neatly in the in-box, not dump-n-run. Too often they asked, "How are you feeling?" and too often I replied, "Fine." Overall, an honest answer, but I missed Sergei and couldn't talk much about him to anyone, except Javin.

"So, Cal," he started one day, sitting in the old chair, elbows on knees and fingertips touching, "think you're ever gonna see this guy again?"

I leaned back in the creaky office chair and lay a hand on my rounding belly, "I don't know, but I tell myself yes, even if it turns out to be a lie."

"He still doesn't know?" Javin asked.

"I haven't told him yet."

Javin slapped his thighs and stood, "Well, I hope for sure he doesn't. Imagine somehow he did, but wasn't owning up to it." He excused himself and left me alone with his cryptic comment. Other people who knew me also had Sergei's number. Those who knew promised not to tell him, but people broke promises.

But no matter. The baby grew.

Late October, I finally bought a few pairs of maternity pants at Goodwill. My loose blouses still fit, and I resolved not to spend much on temporary clothing. To save money, I told myself, but honestly, I knew I may need to get back into shape, in case I wanted, needed, to 'get out there' again. The thought felt repulsive, though. And I felt thankful for that litmus test regarding how I felt about Sergei, like a tacit promise I made to my soul, one that my earthly self still believed.

And the baby grew more.

Mom had fits and spells of depression, chatting happily about upcoming holidays and the approaching baby, then sitting sullenly for hours in her garden, green grass yielding to autumn's tawny dress. Asters turned to fuzz as Mom's tea went cold, and visits to Gam and Grandpa's grave left her silent. I trailed behind during these visits and waved to the grave, "I miss you, Gam, and Grandpa." The pot of yellow mums fell over.

Yellow, orange, red; late October's palette. Reminded me this year of a colorful bookmark stuck half-way in a book that's put aside and picked up much later. The continued correspondence between Sergei and me seemed to go neither here nor there.

October's foliage fell, and one misty Saturday in mid-November, I nestled with a hot cocoa into the easy chair, recalling Thanksgiving and our first date. The crunch of gravel in the driveway intruded, followed by a quick knock, crunch-crunch, and the sound of a vehicle departing. With Jordan at work and Mom and Dad out, it was on me to retrieve the delivery from the drizzly steps. I rocked back and forth, much like my dad, and heaved myself out of the chair. I smiled; perhaps Sergei sent me a surprise for our sort-of anniversary. I unlocked the door, and on the step, a vase of yellow roses. I carefully lifted the slippery vase, brought it inside, and plucked the card. Yes, addressed to me, but sort of an odd choice for Sergei to send me. I would have expected (hoped for) pink or red. My throat tightened, remembering Laslan's cloying boo-hoo bouquet from years ago.

I sat down. Yellow roses were supposed to mean friendship anymore, and before I even opened the card, I wondered, was this another goodbye hint from Sergei? I wished Jordan was home. Even worse, I wished Gam was around to knock all the silly sentiment out of me. I opened the card;

Calliope (I hope I spelled your name right),

I've had time to think since your last encounter with my son. What you said made me think about how I raised him, what he had become, what he hadn't become. My attitude towards you is not something I'm proud of, and I should have been a better man, a better example.

He and I talked, and the result, a one-way ticket to Boston to live with his mother until he gets on his feet, if ever.

The things I imagine you want for my son, I want the opposite. I hope you can understand.

I wish you a long and happy life, because I have to.

Sincerely, J. J. C.

J. J. C. The initials of Laslan's father, clever enough not to mention either one of them by name. The card and flowers left me feeling sick, yet relieved. Carrying the vase to the kitchen sink, I wrapped my hand around the stems to dump the water and compost the flowers, then stopped. I released the flowers back into the vase, primped them, and placed them on the kitchen table. I'd tell Mom that I bought them for her.

I hoisted myself upstairs, grabbed a sheet of Gam's lilac paper and wrote, "I love you. I miss you," and barely caught the outgoing mail.

***

23 Nov __

Dear CeCe,

I love and miss you, too. And, I must laugh, foolish man that I am, I only lately opened the matryoshka you sent to me. I wanted to put something inside for you, and I find your lock of hair and red ribbon. It makes me smile. It reminds me of the storm by the rocks. It gives me hope.

Yours,

Sergei

And with that, November turned into December.

***

Baby check-ups went well and Sunday dinners simplified. I covered much of the work for Mom, although we still left the prize task of prepping dessert with her. I spoke with Jimmy and with Mitzi. Both seemed busy because of the holidays, and happy, in spite of the holidays.

The holidays. Generally a festive time, and other than worrying about January's credit card bill, people seemed merry. I felt mixed. Mom made no mention of the horrible outdoor lights. Dad bagged them and hauled them to the scrapyard, and thanks to a gentrified neighborhood, we enjoyed decorating a newly trash-picked, practically new fake tree. Anyway, his old Christmas tree hunting grounds were now a razed moon-scape that promised Fox Glen Homes Coming Soon.

A week before Christmas, I took the day off from work to spend with Mom. She needed a day out, and so did I, considering that a year ago on that date, Laslan had called. I was determined to take that day back and make it something special again, for a good reason.

The fabric store never failed to delight us, browsing bolt after bolt of every color and design of cloth imaginable. You could forget anything here. Or remember, as Mom oohed and aahed over chickadees forever flitting through frosted branches, and I couldn't let go of the fluid blues and teals of batiks. We purchased two yards of each.

"What on earth are we going to do with this?" Mom said at the register. I shrugged at the cashier and said to Mom, "I don't know. You can knit the hell out of anything, so I think we could manage a baby blanket, perhaps?"

Mom smiled, "Yes, good idea. Lionel will be so happy."

I just smiled. Because I had to.

Later, reclined in the easy chair, I stared into the branches of the scentless tree. After taking Mom to lunch and reassuring her three times that our purchases were securely locked in the car while we ate, I came home exhausted. Not what I'd hoped for, but Mom nonetheless seemed to have had a good time, and that's what mattered. She napped, and I reminded myself to enjoy the peace and quiet.

Until my phone rang. I let it. It rang again and I heaved myself out of the chair, a task at which I'd greatly improved. Sergei's number, thank goodness.

"Hello?"

"Hallo, CeCe, how are you?"

I sank back into the chair. The baby wiggled. "Uh, I'm okay, took the day off to spend with Mom. We're home now." I stared into the fake tree branches. Sergei took a breath, then said, "You sure you are okay today?"

His voice sounded strained. I asked, "Yes, why today particularly?"

"Is the day Laslan called you, yes?"

"Wow, yes, I'm surprised you remembered."

"Of course. Important day."

"The day I flew into your arms," I smiled, my hand rubbing a bump in my belly. The baby's foot, perhaps?

"Mm, yes."

"And remember the black lake, and that loon, and all the birds in the woods by your apartment?" I looked out the window. A few fat snowflakes drifted down. Sergei was quiet and I wondered why he hesitated to relive the memories with me. "The snow is falling here. It's pretty, and... Sergei?"

"Calliope. I have divorced my wife."

This time, I had nothing to say, but the baby did, and she said it with a sharp kick.

"Calliope?"

"I... I guess, I guess I'm sorry?" I took a very deep breath, and slowly released, "So, what will you do now?"

"Live with Lenushka for short time, look for new apartment. Arthritis is not better, though. Teaching, more difficult."

Between a heat creeping up my back and the baby moving, I felt nauseous. Sergei continued talking, but I couldn't follow him.

"CeCe, you seem distant. You are certain you are well?"

That tang rose in my mouth. I had to spill or throw up.

"Sergei, I'm pregnant."

Silence. Maybe I should have opted to throw up instead. Finally, he spoke again, "Well, I, I had hoped you find a good young man." I heard him breathing hard, then he continued, "No. No, I did not, but I suppose I must say congratulations." Another breath, then, "When does your baby come?"

"February."

"February," he repeated. "Wait, February?" He whispered numbers in Russian, then, "So, you got pregnant last spring, when we...?"

"Yes." My eyes stung, "Congratulations, Professor, you're going to be a father."

***

February. The beauty of childbirth. If you've been through it, then I needn't explain. If you haven't, wait your turn or look it up. Blessedly, Nevie's birth went smoothly by all standards. She arrived the good old-fashioned way and in good shape. Jordan remained at my side the entire time. I had told him he could leave, that otherwise I'd never be able to look him in the eye again, but he death-gripped my hand and said, "You need someone here. You want Mom or Dad instead?" And he was right. Childbirth was terrifying and unavoidable.

Conversations with Sergei had felt strained with the approach of Nevie's birth. I wondered if this was a last straw rather than the strongest bond. Perhaps announcing my pregnancy the same day he had announced his divorce was too much. Regardless, several hours after the birth, I called him. He sounded relieved, bewildered, exuberant, and sad. "Want pictures?" I asked. "Calliope, take care of yourself and our baby first. Worry about me later." But how could I not worry? Within two months he went from older divorcée to long-distance daddy. And after a few exhausting days in the hospital, I left with Nevie Violet Winthrop, her first name a derivation of Never, the last word I had said to Sergei in person.

A week later at home, I sat in the easy chair and nursed Nevie, who wore a onesie that I gave to Mitzi years ago. She had sent a sizable box of used girl's clothing for Christmas, a terrific gift considering it only cost her shipping, saved me a few dollars, and best of all, sharing the girls' clothing felt like raising them together.

But there's bitter with sweet. As Nevie suckled, I missed Sergei, realizing he couldn't stroke her downy hair or kiss her plump cheek. His life seemed to wind down as mine ramped up. Would we ever meet on a middle ground?

The phone at my side vibrated with an unfamiliar overseas number. Stuck in the chair with Nevie, I figured why not.

"Hello?"

"Callee-O-peeya? Here, Lenushka, Sergei sestra!"

I stared at the wall, then said, "Oh, yes, hi...," Nevie gurgled and pinched.

"Yes, yes! Sergei, tell me baby in Amereeka! Oh, I scream, we have girl now! Why he don't tell me soon, I don't know. I have four...," she shouted a question at someone off-phone and returned, "sons, yes, sons."

"Yes, I...,"

"Sergei and wife, they, uh, what is word? Never mind. Not good woman, but I am happy! Good. Good. We talk soon. Kiss baby for me! Bye bye!" She hung up.

"Whew, paka, I guess," I whispered to the quiet phone. I remembered the photo of the woman with the wild blond hair and bright eyes. I smiled; if only Sergei knew how lucky he was to have a Mitzi of his own.

Nevie's first month passed quickly, and slowly, if that makes sense. After two weeks, I discovered she wasn't going to break when I changed her diaper or tenderly bathed her in the bathroom sink. After three weeks, on a cold but clear day, I packed Nevie in the white fake fur suit from Mrs. Garabedian for Nevie's grand debut at Prism Graphics. Mr. Garabedian teared up, but his missus quickly dabbed his eyes. Javin double-washed his hands and held Nevie as if one of his own, walking about the lobby and telling her all about plates and drums and wash-ups.

The following morning, late, Nevie and I surprised George, who exclaimed, "I knew it! Just knew it! A pretty little baby girl." We chatted, catching up, and with a wide grin, announced that he wasn't re-letting the apartment.

"Why not?" I smirked, "Sure you don't want to rent to Jordan?"

"Hah. No. Settled on a special lady. We're thinking about knockin' down a wall for a bigger house."

And that was great news. It made me think of Jordan. I hoped he'd be next.

***

Shortly after my birthday in March, I returned to work, kicking off a month normally so dull it ached. Not this year. Mrs. Garabedian loved the idea of me bringing Nevie to work, but all too soon, Nevie would crawl, and I couldn't leave her in the Pack-n-Play for eight hours. On top of that, Mom's neurological appointments confirmed our suspicions of developing dementia and started a treatment of vitamin supplements for starters, for which we had little hope. We braced ourselves for further changes in Mom's behavior and medical requirements, and in our own lifestyles. Thankfully, Dad diverted more of his time from the shop to Mom and finally accepted that changes were coming. Jordan remained cool as usual, yet his sense of humor faded and his stiff smile didn't fit. He couldn't, and shouldn't, stay stuck at home. It wasn't fair to him, but we still needed the help despite all he'd done already.

And so, life settled into a pattern of early rising, caring for Nevie, chores, and work, intermingled with appointments for both Nevie and for Mom. One day while on the phone with Sergei, while I carried Nevie on my hip and supervised Mom's search for a paring knife, he asked, "Calliope, do you ever regret her?"

I sighed, "There's nothing we can do about it. Mom can't help getting sick. We just have to...,"

"No. Nevie."

I swallowed a hot lump, "Nevie? No, never."

"I just wanted to ask," his voice sounded pinched. "I mean, such an accident, and all the work on you, and arthritis medications, they can do terrible things to unborn babies."

"But not your medications."

"Pardon?"

"Remember, I asked you all the time how you treated the arthritis. Only steroids and ibuprofen at the time." I took a breath, then added, "I even checked your apartment several times for other meds. None."

His breathing sounded heavier, "So, our daughter is not an accident?"

"No," I whispered, watching Mom find the hidden knife.

"Why?" he gasped. "An old man with my life spent! What were you thinking? I... I, oh, never mind." He hung up.

"Love you, too," I murmured, laying the phone on the counter. Then, I smiled and kissed Nevie's tiny nose, "And you."

Afternoon to evening, and in the dim light by the west window, I held Nevie close, gently rocking and humming a lullaby. Her warm, sweet-scented body melted against mine, her head almost heavy on my shoulder. A few more minutes rubbing her back, and I lay her down in the crib, tucking a teal blanket around her. Although ready to collapse into bed myself, I turned on the phone flashlight, and dug out my old favorite book, The Dead Tree, from one of the many boxes of stuff returned to my closet. A beautiful illustration of new purpose from old things, the book found itself the next day in a padded envelope with a note;

From your friend, lover, student, assistant, and desiring angel. Don't regret me.

Chapter 35

March to April, April to May. Tickling Nevie's cheeks with lilac blossoms made her laugh for the first time, and the first time I cried from smiling. The memory makes me cry still, and it remained vivid through the warming month of June while I continued juggling diapers, laundry, work, and Mom. July heat and buzz of summer vacations rolled in. Sun and sand, beaches and bikinis, right? Right. Maybe at seventy, when I could retire. But I wiped my brow, hoisted groceries from the trunk, and reminded myself that I wanted this.

I still never regretted what I did, but a hole grew in my heart nonetheless. In my case, absence made the heart grow angry. Perhaps on both sides? For even the gifts and money Sergei used to send had tapered off, but at least Jordan seemed light-hearted again, "Smile, Callie, it's just a few bottles and diapers, not complicated."

"Yes it is."

"Not forever," he'd shrug, breezing in and out of his clean, uncluttered room. But I bit my tongue. I didn't want to revert to the bitch I once was, and I couldn't afford to alienate a helping hand.

And his helping hand I really could have used one sweltering Saturday afternoon. The car limped on a low tire into the driveway and Nevie whined in her sticky car seat. Silently cursing Jordan for ditching me that morning, when last night he'd promised to accompany us, I hauled my pocketbook, sweaty Nevie, and shopping bags out of the car. Apparently something better came up for Jordan, for his car was gone when I left, yet here when I returned.

No matter at this point. I wrangled the bags through the door and dumped them on the couch. Nevie slid down my hip, my tired left arm hoisting her up while her sticky fingers played cat's cradle in my shorter hair. Long, wavy tresses had become too much to manage. "Ow, Stop it, Nev," I tried pulling my head away while walking to the kitchen. On the way, I noticed a dark suitcase in the hallway by Mom's room.

Dad poked his sweaty head through the backdoor to the patio. Wide-eyed, he said, "Cal, there's a visitor out back with Mom, sitting under the trees. Why don't you go out and say hi."

"A visitor? Dad, are you serious? I saw the suitcase. Are you sending her away with a nice young man in a clean white suit?"

Dad wrinkled his face, then followed me into the kitchen. I continued, "Mom's not so bad yet. We talked about this and decided we can manage for a long time yet." I glanced at him. He shrugged, then pulled four glasses and the can of Country Time lemonade from the cupboard. I stole a glass of water before he reached the sink and I drank it too fast. While he stirred lemonades, Dad said, "Come on out when you're ready." He placed the glasses on a small baking pan in lieu of a tray and nearly ran into Jordan, strolling into the kitchen.

"Geez, Cal, your hair's a mess. Might want to comb it," he said, tickling Nevie's cheek.

"Yeah, well, geez Jordan, maybe you shouldn't have ditched me this morning," I frowned, filling the glass again.

"Had to pick something up." He grinned like the Cheshire cat, poured a glass of milk, and disappeared.

I huffed and shook my head, letting water droplets from my fingertips drop onto Nevie's lips, briefly distracting her. The shush of running water calmed me until Nevie pulled my hair. "Ow, stop it, Nevie. I get it, I'll start up a bottle." She squealed for emphasis.

I turned on the faucet for warm water. Thump. Shit, that damn water hammer. Something else that's gotta get fixed. I spooned formula into a bottle, filled it, then shut off the faucet.

Thump.

I stared at the three lemon trees that thrived on the sill above the sink. Nevie suddenly hushed.

Thump.

That wasn't just a dark suitcase in the hall. It was black.

Thump.

And in the summer heat, I froze. My eyes felt windburned, as if I'd spent the afternoon at the beach. One hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other squeezing Nevie, I couldn't move.

"Hallo, CeCe. Jordan picked me up this morning," he said softly. "Calliope, please look at me."

On turning, I felt like a granite post in frozen ground, but there stood Sergei, looking tired but smiling. Eyes watery, his trembling hand touched my cheek, then he reached toward Nevie, "And my dotche," he whispered. Nevie's head swivelled and she buried her face in my neck. I reached for Sergei and barely managed to say, "She'll get used to you," I slid my arm around him, "If you stay long enough."

I wanted to melt into Sergei, as Nevie melted into me after a long day, but Dad returned to the kitchen and his odd expression pulled us apart. Apparently my parents still didn't get it.

"Lemonade's gettin' wahm," Dad growled, and left with paper towels.

I waited until Dad's back passed through the door, then gave Sergei a soft kiss. "What do they know?"

"Jordan told them visiting professor, saying hello to old students."

I smiled, "I see. You and Jordan colluding again?"

"Yes."

"Good." This time I was happy about it. "Now sit, I have to prep a bottle for Nev."

Sergei sat and with a beaming smile and outstretched arms, waited for me to peel Nevie off of my shoulder, and with limbs spinning like a pinwheel, she landed between two swollen but strong hands about her taut, chubby torso. Sergei quelled her protests with a soft, steady flow of Russian, starting a bond only they would understand.

Stepping away to finish the bottle, I rinsed the tears from my face, trying to rinse away the unreal feeling. Bottle made, I sat next to Sergei. He gently rocked Nevie and cooed, "Well, my child, let's join Mamma and Pappa in the garden."

I handed the bottle to Sergei, then placed a hand on his knee, "No. They can wait. I haven't seen you in over a year." Sergei shifted to give Nevie the bottle, then said, "We have to tell them."

"I know. I thought they would have connected the dots by now." I watched Nevie sucking away, "You're good at nursing a baby."

Sergei smiled, "You remember, Sonia has four boys. Older now, but I helped sometimes."

Nevie stopped a moment, then smacked Sergei's chin. He looked about to cry when Jordan, carrying a duffel bag, stepped into the kitchen.

"You join a gym?" I asked.

"Nope, spending a few nights at Lynn's," he grinned.

"Lynn?"

"New girlfriend. Looking pretty serious. Sergei, I brought your suitcase upstairs. You can have my room as long as you need it. I'm out." He raised a hand and was gone. Nevie finished. I slung a dishcloth over my shoulder, took her back and burped her. I looked at Sergei, sighed, and said, "Well, you ready?"

Our sweaty lemonade glasses sat in puddles on the scratched patio table, dragged under the shade of the trees along with the other furniture.

"About time," Mom said. "Your ice cubes melted already."

"Nevie needed a bottle," I replied, sitting next to Sergei on the glider. He took Nevie, fussing and rubbing her eyes, and lay her on his shoulder. Dad with his trout face, bugging brown eyes and pursed lips, kept looking from me to Sergei to Mom. "So, Calliope," she started, "isn't it something that your old professor stopped by? You must have made quite an impression on him. And he's not grumpy and mean at all, like you said." Sergei glanced my way and shook his head. She continued, "So, Professor Marchingcough...,"

"Sergei, ma'am. Please call me Sergei."

"Sir-gee, do you have children?"

Dad growled.

"Oh, Paul," Mom chided, "if you have to clear your throat, go inside. So, Sir-gee?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have one very young daughter."

Mom frowned, "Very young? Oh, well, it's none of my business, but don't you think you should be home with her?"

Nevie's leg kicked, then went still as Sergei gently rocked. He looked at me, smiled, and said, "I am."

Epilogue

A week into his stay, Sergei's age seemed a boon, not a bane, as Mom grew comfortable in the company of an older man with afflictions of his own. In the evenings after dinner, Dad and Sergei remained at the kitchen table, discussing politics and history, a nice break for Dad from TV reruns.

Two weeks into Sergei's stay, Jordan announced that he was moving in with Lynn and left us his room. And on a Saturday afternoon while Nevie slept, Sergei and I sat on the edge of Jordan's ex-bed. Sergei presented the matryoshka doll I'd given him, and while brushing my shoulder-length hair with his fingers, said, "Open."

I opened the doll and smiled at the lock of hair with the red ribbon, "You brought my hair back."

"Look further."

I did so, and beneath the lock of hair lay a fine gold ring with a tiny diamond.

"Pick it up. It won't bite."

I did so, placing the ring in the palm of my hand, then looking at him. He gently closed my fingers around the ring, then clasped his hands around mine, "Calliope, you remember the day on the rocks, the storm?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"And you remember, I said it was perfect place, but did not finish?"

"Yes." My eyes watered, the roar of the ocean filled my ears. He held my hand tighter and said, "The perfect place to ask... Calliope, will you marry me?"

The third week, we were married by a justice of the peace in Mom's garden. Mom and Dad, Jordan and Lynn, Javin and Cherise, and George and his lady attended.

The fourth week, despite green card and other hurdles ahead, we took our honeymoon on the rocks by the ocean with Nevie and a picnic. Sergei held Nevie close, talking and pointing out seagulls wheeling in the sky while mellow swells shushed along the shore like a lullaby. Sergei and Nevie had taken to each other greatly over the past weeks and I, and probably Gam, too, couldn't have wanted anything more.

However, as a spritz of sea spray cooled my face, a question occurred, "Sergei?"

"Hm?" He continued watching the ocean with Nevie.

"Who'd you really come back for?"

He turned his head, and with a twinkle in his eyes peering through Nevie's wind-tousled hair, he replied, "I will never tell you."

Eto vseu.